Blame it on the Boys
by Chasing Rabbits
Summary: Kenny McCormick has seen enough coming-of-age films to know that he doesn't want his life to be one. Take senior year, add a cute blonde in a mouth-watering pair of jeans, and sprinkle on confusing dreams to taste. Identity crises are the worst. Bunny & others.
1. Looking for an Axe to Grind

**Chapter 1: Looking for an Axe to Grind**

Kenny McCormick had his first dream about guys when he was eleven-years-old. He'd woken at two in the morning in a cold sweat, jolting his brother out of sleep as he whimpered and patted himself to make sure he was okay, that he hadn't died, that he was awake and that this was real.

"It was just a nightmare, you fucking fag," Kevin had muttered, obviously annoyed, and Kenny had gone cold all over. There was no way Kevin could've known… right? Right.

Only, "I don't have nightmares," he'd said very frankly, because he didn't. Doesn't. Not anymore. He'd seen shit, horrible Necronomicon, fire and brimstone shit, and he'd only been eleven.

"Fuck it," Kevin grunted and buried his face in his side of the pillow he and Kenny shared. "Dad got you pretty hard."

He'd rolled over then, his brown eyes narrow slits illuminated only by the flickering streetlamp outside Kenny's window, and moved to run his fingers over the lump on the back of Kenny's head.

Normally he doesn't make it through being hit on the head very well, but that day had been different for whatever reason. He'd crossed his legs at the table or something while he'd been reading through his homework for English class, and when his dad had seen that he'd hauled him up onto his feet, telling him he may as well have "bent over and begged for a cornholing", and tossed him aside like a ragdoll.

He'd smacked his head hard against the counter, hard enough to be dizzy when he stood back up, and he'd figured that if he didn't crack his head open and bleed out, he'd at least sustained a concussion and would die in his sleep.

Instead, he'd had a dream about a guy—a boy? A really pretty boy who'd taken him into his arms and stroked his hand over his hair and his chest and touched him. Just touched him. And Kenny had touched him back. He'd been hard under his skin, like Kenny's fingers had been grazing over stone rather than flesh, but it'd somehow felt good.

Kenny had just chocked it up to a jostled brain and the fact that it made him so nervous to have Kevin sleeping right next to him and left it at that.

Except the dreams didn't go away.

Kevin, Kenny, and Karen had all dragged an old mattress they'd found back up to Kevin's room the next week, but the dreams came back; Kenny had died and gotten a fresh brain, but still the dreams persisted. Amid the nights he'd spend in a pillowy heaven of breasts, soft flesh, and curves, he'd occasionally have one night where he'd spend whole stretches of hours lost among a throng of Adonis-like men, all with rippling muscles and square jaws and dashing smiles.

He told himself to ignore it—everyone has weird dreams sometimes. He could live with having sexy dreams about men every once in a while, just like he could live with occasionally having dreams about playing drums with Animal from the Muppets and shit like that.

But when puberty came around, everything got harder to ignore. Soon he'd started waking up with wet patches ruining his pants, all because he'd gotten to feel a pair of awesome tits in a dream. That was fine. So his days of rubbing himself against his bed without consequence were over—big deal.

"Eh, don't worry about it, son," his dad had clapped him on the shoulder one morning as he'd stripped his ratty old mattress of its ruined sheets. "Girlie dreams are gonna do that to you for a while. Just get the sheets in the wash before your mom sees."

Stuart, of course, had picked the one day Kenny hadn't spunked his shorts over a 'girlie dream' to play the role of a supportive father. Kenny was in fact well aware that, at age thirteen, he'd just had his first wet dream about dick-sucking. He'd spent all day hoping it would be his last.

Dreaming about it was one thing.

Jizzing in your pants over it is quite another.

And getting hard on your way to school just thinking about it is so far from okay that it's… _fuck_.

Butters had smiled at him and given him a cheerful greeting that morning in homeroom; Kenny had bitten his head off. And he thinks that's how this whole thing started.

There's nothing intrinsically _wrong_ with Butters. He's just often in the wrong place at the wrong time and he's so goddamned cheerful that it really grates on Kenny's nerves. Like, why does he get to think the best of everything when there's no best to be thought? Especially since he's been regularly called 'faggot', 'queer', and just about every other uncreative homophobic nickname these brain-dead rednecks they call peers can think up. Why does he get to come out of it unscathed? No one even knows about Kenny's… _inklings_, but Kenny's fully aware of the gravity of the situation and keeps it locked up tight.

Not that there's much to know, but Kenny can't be too careful. He's punched guys before for giving him looks, that's how serious he is about it. His mom can't understand why he does it, tells him that she thought he was better than his deadbeat father or his meat-headed brother, but his dad tells her it's just what boys do. They're scrappy, they get into fights, and so that's what Kenny does. The more people he fights, the more he throws his dad and everyone else off the trail. With every guy he socks, with every suspension from school, he can rest easy in his belief that no one knows about _this. _

_This_. What even is _this_?

Even if he doesn't exactly have a name for it, _this_ is what's making him stare at _Batman Forever _through his fingers, unable to discern whether or not he wants Nicole Kidman to sit on his face or get down on his knees and start sucking off Chris O'Donnell.

He shakes the thoughts out of his head—Nicole Kidman. Of course. Stupid question.

_This_ is also what makes Kenny's face go red and gut light on fire when the bell on the front door of the video store rings and Butters strolls in, cheerful as ever as he gives Kenny a wave and starts browsing through the DVDs on the 'New Rentals' rack.

Kenny's not sure why Butters still comes in to rent movies, but he doesn't actually ask. Usually the clients here are older people who don't know how to work the internet, and kids who need some place to go after school. Butters is neither of those things.

Butters is sixteen, a day away from being a senior in high school, for god's sake, and he's at renting movies at four in the afternoon on a fucking Wednesday. There's not much to say, other than the fact that this is just Butters all over. He does a lot of senseless shit, all with a dopey smile on his face, and it turns Kenny's spit into acid.

_Boiling. Acid. _

Kenny watches as he moves through the store, seemingly looking through every single title they carry like he does every time he comes in. He's not the type who dresses flamboyantly or who's way too effeminate for his own good, though he is an active member of the high school drama club and does sometimes wear clothes that are a little too snug on him.

Like right now. His jeans hug him in all the right places, in all the places Kenny shouldn't notice, and his shirt rides up just a little when he reaches up to grab movies off the top shelves, exposing strips of smooth, golden skin that makes Kenny's pupils dilate and mouth flood with saliva and fists tighten up so hard that his nails cut into his palms.

This isn't okay.

Butters is a guy.

Kenny goes back to his movie, even though it's hard not to watch Butters as he browses the racks thoughtfully, like whatever decision he makes will affect the final outcome of his life.

When he finally puts a stack of two movies on the counter, Kenny looks over and tries not to sneer at Butters' smile.

"How's it goin' today, Ken?" he asks as he shoves his hands in his pockets. Kenny heaves an irritated sigh and gives Butters a look.

"You know I need to scan your card into the system, dude," he says, and it's snippy and short and not at all okay, but Kenny can't fucking help it. This kid makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

"Oh!" Butters jumps a little and digs into his pocket for his wallet. It's Velcro, which Kenny figures he should've expected, and, interestingly enough, there's a Batman logo on it. He hands Kenny his card and waits patiently while Kenny scans it.

"Nice wallet," he says, because he actually feels like he may need to be a little nicer to him sometimes. And really, how much conversation could they have about a wallet?

"Oh, thanks," Butters laughs a little and tucks it back in his pocket. "Batman's my favorite superhero."

Kenny nods and scans the DVDs, _Little Shop of Horrors_ and the old version of _Hairspray_ with Ricki Lake when she was fat. Kenny's never seen the latter, but he actually really likes _Little Shop of Horrors_.

"We're thinkin' of doin' these," Butters chimes in as the total of five dollars flashes up on the ancient register screen. "I-in drama club, I mean," he stammers as he gets out his wallet again and hands Kenny a five dollar bill.

"Fascinating," Kenny nods, using all of his energy to put the money in the register instead of look at Butters' face.

"We got other options too," Butters continues as Kenny gets his receipt and stuffs it in the Little Shop case. "You should audition this year! Heck, we're always lookin' for fellas who can sing."

"No thanks, Butters," Kenny gives him a terse smile. He's been in the unfortunate circumstance where Butters has caught him singing in the showers in the locker room in freshman year, like they're on a fucking sitcom or something.

Butters just nods, looking a little more downtrodden than before, and it makes Kenny secretly gleeful. Good. Butters should feel half as crappy as he does every once in a while. He leaves the store, flame dimmed just a little bit, and Kenny sighs a little.

The thing about being mean to Butters is that it never makes him feel as good as it seems to make other people feel.

He finishes his work day around six and goes to head home. He doesn't have a car, since Kevin needs the truck they fixed up together to go to work during the week, so he rides a bike. It's doesn't exactly win him points in the coolness column, but he's never been that cool to begin with, so he figures it doesn't matter too much.

When he gets home, the sun is sinking low in the sky and his stomach is rumbling like crazy. Things have been better since he's started working—he has money for food almost always now, and it's getting to the point where he's not as much of a skinny fuck as he used to be.

Granted, he survives mostly on pizza and Tapatio Doritos when left to his own devices, but he hasn't died from it yet so he must be doing something right.

He's barely even in the door before he's bombarded by the sight of Kevin in nothing but his boxers, sitting on the couch and slurping back a cup of noodles as he watches an episode of COPS on their shitty TV.

"Jesus, Kevin," he mutters as he shuts the door behind him. "Don't you have a fucking job?"

"Working on a highway tonight," Kevin says through a full mouth. "Don't have to be in 'til eleven."

"Mm," Kenny nods back and heads to the kitchen. He wants to fire off a comeback, or say something along the lines of a wildly grandiose "Fan-fucking-tastic", but he's gotten backhanded for being clever one too many times in his life, so he just leaves it at a hum and calls it a day.

He opens up the cabinet, ready for his own dinner of ramen, and falters.

"Hey fuckface," he calls and walks back into the living room. "I know you didn't leave me nothing but that jenky shrimp flavor."

Kevin just shrugs, not looking away from the TV, "Fuck that shit, it's pink."

Kenny gives him a look, he knows he does, and says nothing but, "Really?"

When Kevin nods, Kenny figures arguing is a lost cause, so he goes over and socks Kevin in the shoulder as hard as he can, relying solely on the fact that he'll have time to run because Kevin will need time to set down his noodles before he comes chasing after him.

Only, Kevin tosses his cup down on the already stained carpet and tackles Kenny right then and there. Kevin's nineteen, and much bigger than Kenny now that he's started working in construction. Normally Kenny's at least fast enough to outrun him, but today he's a little sluggish and annoyed and it's costing him dearly.

"Get the fuck off of me!" he shouts and tries to wriggle away, kicking and hitting until Kevin inevitably relents and lets him up. Kevin's not having any of it, though. He flips Kenny easily, bending one arm behind his back with one hand and smashing his face into the carpet with the other.

"Hit me again, faggot," Kevin taunts and yanks forcefully on Kenny's arm, continuing over his yelp of pain, "Come on, I fucking dare you."

"Aw, for God's sake, Kevin, let him up!"

It's their mom. She looks like she just woke up, all scraggly-haired and puffy-eyed. Kevin gives Kenny's face one final push into the ground before he hops up and returns to the couch. He doesn't pick up the mess of noodles on the floor, which means Kenny will probably end up doing that tomorrow when everyone else has also failed to do so.

"Jesus, Kevin," their mom sighs as Kenny stands. "He hurt anything important?" she brushes at the carpet burn on his cheek and gives him a concerned look. He's always been his mom's favorite, and she's never been shy about showing it.

"Nah, ma, I'm fine," he gives her a resigned smile in return and ducks back into the kitchen. It may be a shitty flavor, but shrimp ramen is probably the only thing he's going to have in his stomach until lunchtime tomorrow, and by then he'll be at school.

He eats up in his room, telling his mom that he's not feeling very well and that he's just going to go to sleep after. He ignores the fuck out of Kevin calling him a pussy, because he knows he's going to get his ass beaten if he tries to start anything.

He pulls out a trashy gossip rag he nicked from the convenience store last night on his way home and props it up on his knees as he nurses his disgusting noodles. He doesn't care much for things like _In Touch _or _Star_ or _People_, even though he reads them frequently. It's easy, it's mind-numbing, and it's way nicer than sitting downstairs with Kevin. Plus, Karen loves reading them, so he just gives them to her when he's done.

Plus, they're pretty free from things like sexy perfume ads and the like. It's not that Kenny minds those, but ever since his body went haywire and started popping stiffies at men's underwear ads, he's tried to cut back on the confusing masturbatory material.

He's still pretty convinced that _this_ is a phase, something every teenager goes through that he'll one day laugh at himself for taking so seriously.

Still, one can never be too cautious.

He goes to bed early, which is good, he supposes, since he hasn't been sleeping great the last few weeks. He's worn down from working as much as he has this summer, and it's like his body won't let him recuperate. And, with working more hours and being as tired as he's been, it's offered less time to chill at all the kickbacks that went on this summer. Less booze, less weed, and less sex than he's used to. No wonder he feels like shit.

Like, last time he got laid was with Bebe when they'd both skipped the last day of school and found each other at the mall.

Fuck, that's pitiful.

He falls asleep thinking about Bebe—the curve of her hips, the green and white polka dot bra she always wears, that he can always see through her shirts, how fucking gratifying it was to slide between her legs and get her off with nothing but his tongue and his fingers, and how she'd begged him for more even after she'd come… he needs that. He needs to make people feel good like that. He smiles, wondering if he'll dream about how hard she rode him after, how he'd nuzzled the curves of her breasts and licked and sucked over every last bit of skin he could get his mouth on.

He dreams about two things: one is an alien invasion that ends in Kenny being eaten by a giant plant, and the other is an unsettlingly familiar, distinctly _male_ ass in a pair of tight jeans. Fine, he's used to these. He'll fucking deal with it.

Only, suddenly he's somehow on his back, and, god fucking damn it, it's Butters crawling all over him, shirtless and sucking hickeys into his neck and—

Oh god, and _fucking_ him. Like, somehow this dream ends with Butters thrusting into him without abandon, and Jesus Christ, Kenny's whimpering and shouting and writhing below him and it's _good_.

It's so fucking good.

When his alarm goes off in the morning, Kenny shoots up, all short of breath and definitely sporting some mad morning wood. He can't… he can't believe he—he didn't even know his mind had the capacity to build that scenario. And now he's fucking fit to burst because of it.

He looks down at the erection tenting his boxers and flops back against his pillow, deciding that he can just get off really quick and it won't matter. Bodies do weird things when they sleep; it doesn't mean anything. He dips his hand below the waistband of his undies and grips himself in a loose fist, whining a little as he swipes his thumb over his slit and starts working himself into a sleepy, lustful haze.

No sooner is he bucking up into his hand, so close to the edge, does Karen come busting in without so much as a knock to make sure he's awake and cut his little self-love session short.

"Fuck, dude!" he exclaims and pulls his covers back up over himself as Karen yelps and covers her eyes. "Knock much? Jesus."

"Uh, wow," Karen mutters, turning away to face the other side of the wood-paneled hallway. "I'm—sorry, wow."

"Where's the fucking fire?" Kenny grouses out.

"I just wanted to know if you wanted the last waffle!" Karen exclaims and stomps her foot. She's already dressed for the day—their first day of school.

Shit. Kenny runs his hands over his face and falls back against the bed.

"No, dude, you can take it," he sighs. "I'll grab some poptarts out of the machine at school." Even though he probably won't.

"Cool, thanks," she mutters and grabs the doorknob. "Uh, as you were… or something."

"Ha!" Kenny barks and rolls out of bed. "In hell."

Karen turns and shakes her head before closing the door. Meanwhile, Kenny goes on a valiant search through the piles of clothes on his floor, seeking his cleanest pair of pants while cursing their shitty washing machine for breaking down after thirteen years of halfway decent use. He sniffs at the pits of his shirt and decides it's good enough to wear for another day before wriggling into a pair of pants and pulling on his least-stiff pair of socks. He's trying to get his dream out of his head, trying to will himself into a state of presentable…_ness_, but nothing's working.

He pulls on a ratty old sweater that he stole from Kevin a while back. He's since gotten rid of his trademark orange—it's flashy and too many guys used to grab their junk and ask if Kenny wanted to suck them off when he wore it. He likes gray just fine anyway, and when put together with his Dropkick Murphys shirt and his stained jeans and his scuffed up work boots, it's… Okay, Stan's right, he looks like a trailer trash punk, but it's better than peacocking and drawing unnecessary attention to oneself, right? Right.

Kenny walks with Karen to the bus stop, but doesn't stay there long. Stan pulls up in his mom's old Volvo and honks long and hard. It makes Kenny smile and flip him off, and Karen tells him to go.

"I like riding the bus with Ruby still," she reassures him. "I'll see you later."

Kenny gives her a wave and hops into Stan's car, kicking his feet up on the dash and pulling his hood up over his head as Stan peels away down the road.

"Can you believe we made it to senior year, dude?" Stan asks amusedly, drumming his hands on the steering wheel and leaning back in his seat. "Gotta be honest, I didn't think we'd last this long."

"Fuck it, man, I don't think I have," Kenny says with a relieved sort of smile as he runs his fingers through his hair. It's greasy, and he should've showered this morning, except he'd been too busy pulling his pud to think that one through.

His balls kind of ache as his thoughts flit back to the dream, but he quickly stamps it out.

"Okay, quick stop dude," Stan says, "We gotta pick up Butters. His mom says he can't use the car."

Kenny feels his face immediately color at the mention of Butters' name. Butters Stotch, the kid who ass-fucked Kenny in his _dreams_ last night. They're picking him up and taking him to school today. Fantastic. Thinking on it, it makes total sense. Why wouldn't his fucking life go this way, you know?

"Seriously?" Kenny finds himself whining. He knows he sounds like a two year old, but he doesn't think he can actually look at Butters without getting a hard-on right now.

"Dude, what's your deal with him?" Stan frowns. "I know he's kind of weird and everything, but you don't need to be such a dick to him."

"I can't do the smiles today, Stan," Kenny shakes his head as they roll to a stop outside the Stotch residence. "I can't fucking do it, man."

Stan smiles as he pulls out his phone to text Butters, "Why, too distracting?"

"Who the fuck smiles that much!" Kenny protests, even thought he knows it's a weak as shit argument. As much as Butters pisses him off, Kenny doesn't believe in blindly hating people, no matter how much they smile, which is why he concedes. "I'll be nice," he says as Butters comes out of his house and walks toward the car with a cheerful spring in his step. Kenny will bet anything he's whistling, the hopeless little fruit.

He's in those same jeans from yesterday, with those same yellow shoes. He's wearing an all-too stylish black leather jacket over a brightly colored shirt… He's fucking good-looking. It was the biggest fucking upset amongst the female population of Park County High School when he'd turned up the first day of sophomore year as attractive as he was.

"Hey fellas," Butters greets them happily as he settles into the back seat. "Ready for our last first day of high school ever?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Stan nods and looks in the rearview at Butters as he drives away. "How's your week been?"

"Oh, just fine," Butters shrugs, "My aunt's comin' into town this weekend… I guess she's got a work thing to go to in Denver, but she's also takin' me to dinner for my birthday."

Kenny finds himself sinking lower and lower into his seat. It's residual from the dream, he tells himself. That's why his pants are getting tighter and his lungs are closing up, because he's still not completely awake.

"Cool story, bro," is how Kenny attempts to stave off the blood rushing to his cock, and Stan shoots him a look. There's a beat of silence before Butters pipes up, "I don't know who shoved all that sand up your butthole, but it sure has made you cranky."

Stan breaks out into uproarious laughter while Kenny sinks down further, drawing the strings on his hood tight and resolving to stay like that until the motherfucking apocalypse comes.

He keeps his mouth shut for the whole ride to school, while Butters and Stan discuss something about drama club; Stan's involvement in theater came as no surprise, since Wendy had been an active participant from the get-go and he actually likes all that singing and performing crap. He's been trying to get Kenny to join for the last three years, and Kenny wouldn't be surprised if he and Butters have some elaborate plan to capture him and put him on stage.

When they get to school, Kenny doesn't wait for Stan or Butters before he walks around to the back of the school. He needs a cigarette desperately, and people to be around who don't talk about singing and dancing, or spend free time with dicks down their throats. That's what all drama guys do, right? Kenny takes out a cigarette from his near-empty pack and taps it a few times on the palm of his hand before slipping it between his lips.

He goes toward the back wall, where the familiar figures of Eric Cartman and Kyle Broflovski are leaning up against the dull red bricks, each sucking on the ends of their own cigarettes and looking to be in heated debate. As he gets closer, he can hear them arguing about something that sounds way too academic for Kenny's liking, but it's better than being around Wonderqueers.

"Hey, guys," he says as he approaches them and lights up. The first drag is always the best, he finds, and he's more than happy that Cartman and Kyle barely acknowledge his presence amidst their quarrel.

"That's not the point of socialism and you fucking know it, fatass."

"The hell it's not, Kahl!" Cartman shoots back as Kenny leans against the wall beside Kyle. It's like white noise by now, more calming than anything he's ever heard.

"What the fuck are you guys even talking about," Kenny stifles a yawn.

"Our AP Government summer assignment," Kyle rolls his eyes, seemingly done now with the entire conversation. "He's being retarded."

"I am not!" Cartman bellows back. They re-launch into their argument full throttle, and Kenny can't be bothered to care. It offers up a nice distraction from his cruddy morning, and even after all three of them have finished smoking they stay there. Kenny checks his phone—they still have fifteen more minutes before the first bell rings, and as long as he doesn't have to go to homeroom yet and sit with the ever chatty Butters and Stan, he thinks he'll be okay.

After a few minutes, Wendy and Gary come around the back of the school too, hanging a 'welcome back' poster for their student government class. It's cool, until Wendy spots Cartman and Kyle and feels it's necessary to stalk over like a woman on a mission.

She's tall and slim, like the kinds of girls everyone always thinks should be models or something. Kenny thinks she's pretty enough, but then she opens her mouth and gets scary and Kenny's not sure he could deal with someone who's so intense about everything all the fucking time.

"What's up, assholes?" she braces her hands on her hips and scowls. Out of the corner of his eye, Kenny can see Kyle and Cartman doing a really shitty job of covering up their laughter. "Do either of you know who tagged a bunch of dicks on the inside of my locker?"

Cartman snorts as Kyle bites his lip and shuts his eyes.

"Wendy, what are you talking about?" Cartman asks, false innocence in his voice. "School just started today."

"Someone must've done that at the end of last year," Kyle shrugs and bites on his thumbnail. Wendy just smiles, taking it all in stride.

"That's right, go ahead and laugh," she nods. "But I'm gonna take you bitches and eat you for _breakfast_ this year, you got that? I'm going to be valedictorian. Me. I'm the one who works for it, I'm the one who wants it, and you two are just being assholes."

"Shyeah right," Cartman scoffs. "I totally work hard for it, Wendy. I wanna go to fuckin' Harvard," he can't keep a straight face at that last part. He and Kyle crack up and have to lean on each other for support, they're laughing so hard. Kenny doesn't get it, to be perfectly honest, and from the way Gary's looking at him and shrugging beside him, he doesn't either.

Cartman, sure. He only takes all the same classes as Wendy and Kyle and works so hard so he can give them a run for their money, but Kyle? Kyle actually gives a fuck about school and wants to do well. Kenny didn't think he'd resort to petty psych-outs like Cartman.

"When did they start getting chummy?" Gary asks, arms folded over his chest and looking entirely confused. Normally he doesn't stick with Kenny's crowd, hangs with nice guys like Butters and Clyde, but even he's not impervious to the obvious camaraderie.

"I don't know, man," Kenny sighs and shoulders his backpack. Not even to homeroom yet and this is shaping up to be a pretty lousy year. He doesn't say goodbye to Cartman or Kyle as he leaves, and sure as shit doesn't expect Gary to tag along close behind him.

"Wendy's pretty smart and everything, but she's sure scary," he offers as segue into polite conversation, and Kenny almost takes the bait. Gary's not a bad guy either—it's hard to be when you spend so much of your life being a Mormon, Kenny thinks. He's blonde, built, runs Key Club, plays baseball in the spring and football in the fall, and he's just one of those guys you can't hate, but don't necessarily want to love.

"Yeah," Kenny just mutters and walks a little faster.

"She's sure pretty too," Gary keeps up with him. Kenny's legs are longer, but Gary's got a brisk, athletic gait.

"I don't know, I'd be too scared to sleep with her," Kenny shrugs. It's a good excuse, he thinks, because saying he'd never sleep with a girl Stan once dated, however long ago it may have been, sounds a little too gay for him right now. Gary seems a little to amused by this, though, and it makes Kenny's blood boil. People tell him off for saying shit like that—Wendy's pretty choice, and under different circumstances, Kenny likes to think that he _would_ totally bone her.

"Hey, chin up," Gary says when he catches the look on Kenny's face. When he fails to do so, Gary frowns and stops, which somehow compels Kenny to stop too. "Hey, man, are you doing okay?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" Kenny scoffs. He could actually probably tell Gary what's been on his mind without too many ramifications. The guy's like a lockbox when it comes to shit like this.

"I don't know," Gary shrugs. "You look like you could use a friend. That's what I am; I come by it naturally." He smiles at that last bit, and it actually gives Kenny pause. Someone cares enough about him to ask if he's okay. Someone would actually sit there and listen to every word he had to say, if indeed he had anything worth talking about.

He doesn't though.

"It's nothing," he says and turns to walk away.

"Kenny?" Gary follows him, running to catch up with him a bit as he walks in the back door to the school building. "No offense or anything, but I don't think it's nothing. You look really beat up, dude."

"Dude, fuck off!" Kenny wheels around, stopping Gary dead in his tracks and getting the attention of a few surrounding freshmen.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a dick or anything," Gary holds up his hands. "Just, sometimes it's helpful to talk to someone, y'know? I'm friends with the other peer counselors, okay, you don't have to talk to me—"

"And what the fuck makes you think I wanna talk?" Kenny snaps back. He's taller than Gary; it's only by a little bit, but somehow it makes Kenny think he can get away with shoving his shoulder. Gary moves along with it and looks down where Kenny's just touched him, raising an eyebrow and cocking his head.

"Are you serious right now?" Gary asks, sounding entirely unafraid and it makes Kenny's vision go red around the edges. He throws off his bag and holds out his arms, putting on the macho dickhead thing he's seen time and time again from his dad and brother. This is how guys act.

Somewhere inside of him he knows he doesn't believe that, but he's not really thinking properly right now. Right now, all he can process is that Gary thinks he has something to talk about, and _this_? Whatever it is? It's not worth anything, much less a fucking conversation.

"Damn fucking straight I'm serious, fucker," Kenny scowls and pushes Gary again.

"Dude, I'm not," Gary laughs a little now and folds his arms across his chest. "I'm not going to fight you."

"Go ahead, I fucking dare you," Kenny continues, louder this time. People are definitely staring now, but he can't be fucked to care. Gary's smug face is rubbing him in all the wrong ways and it's making his fingers itch like crazy. Before he knows it, he's making a fist and—fuck—he clocks Gary right in the cheek. Gary takes it well, like he was expecting it, but also seems to retaliate without too much thought. He's got a mean right hook that makes Kenny go down like a sack of potatoes.

Everyone watching is in uproar. They're not a terribly big school, but there's enough of them to draw in a decent crowd. Kenny's face is red hot, though he's not sure whether it's from rage or the fact that he drew more attention than he'd intended.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it before he's being hauled up off the floor. He gets a whiff of familiar cologne and clean-smelling shampoo, and sure enough it's Butters has him on his feet. Kenny shrugs him off, but can see that Stan's over with Gary, grabbing his jaw and inspecting the red mark on his cheek.

Kenny supposes he should suspect something then, what with the way Stan's fingers sit gingerly on Gary's skin, how Gary so subtly leans into the touch, but he's got a pulsing ache in his jaw and he can feel the heat of Butters standing behind him.

Before he knows it, he and Gary are sitting outside of the dean's office, both with ice packs on their faces and refusing to speak.

Okay, so the refusal is more Kenny's thing than it is Gary's, but the fucker seems to finally be picking up on Kenny's social cues and getting that he's not into talking.

At least, he is until he comes out with a, "I didn't mean to get you so hard, man."

"Don't," Kenny just says.

"I can't help it," Gary sighs. "You hit me, I just get into defense mode. I've taken too many years of Tae Kwan Do not to, y'know?"

"It's fucking fine, asshole, Jesus!" Kenny shouts just as the dean opens up the door and gives them a long, hard scowl. And okay, he's looking more at Kenny than he is at Gary when he does that, but he calls Gary in first. Kenny figures it's because it's Gary's first infraction and Kenny's millionth.

It's well into first period by now, and it so happens to be the same period that Butters is an office assistant. Because of course it is. He comes to sit beside Kenny in Gary's empty spot and just looks at him. Kenny still refuses to talk, just sits there and white-knuckles the frozen sponge on his face. Butters sighs a little and braces his elbows on his knees.

"If you'd let me check for swelling—"

"Fuck off," Kenny spits. He doesn't need this shit right now.

"I'm just trying to be a friend," Butters scowls, looking genuinely upset now. It's a little bit of a relief—Kenny thinks that if he were smiling right now, he'd clock him too.

"I don't need any fucking friends right now, Butters," Kenny says a little too loudly, and he's given a warning look from one of the office workers. Kenny sinks in his seat and runs his fingers through his hair again.

If he'd showered this morning, he would've been able to jerk off in peace. He could've cleared his mind and that would've been that.

Scratch that—coming to the thought of Butters fucking him probably would've pissed him off even more.

Butters looks like he's about to respond, but the dean comes back out, sending out a resigned-looking Gary and beckoning Kenny forth. Gary sits down beside Butters, but Butters doesn't pay him too much attention. Knowing him, he's going to press his ear to the door as soon as it's been shut.

God, Kenny just does not care anymore.

"All right, Kenny," says the dean as he sits down behind his desk. "This is a new record for you. I'm impressed."

"I do aim to please," Kenny nods and removes the ice from his jaw. It's a little tender, but he's definitely had worse.

"Do you want to tell me why you hit Gary?" the dean leans back and folds his arms. "Or are we going to do what we always do and just suspend you for a few days and think nothing more of it?"

"That," Kenny points and nods. "That sounds fantastic. Write me up for one of those."

The dean laughs a little and steeples his fingers, "I'm getting pretty tired of your shit, McCormick."

Wait. That's… not right.

"'scuse me?" Kenny asks uncertainly.

"How's expulsion sound to you?" the dean asks, now very grave, and Kenny's eyes get big. Yeah, he's kind of a fuck-up, but he _needs _to be in school. Otherwise he just sits at home all day with his brother and his dad. If he's not in school, that's his fucking one-way ticket, man. He loses every single chance he has to get the fuck out of that house and live a somewhat decent life.

Big a pipe dream as that is to begin with.

"No," he just shakes his head. "No fucking way, you can't do that."

"Then I'd love to hear an alternative," the dean throws up his hands. "Kenny," he begins and starts ticking off on his fingers, "I can't have you starting fights, you don't want to tell me why you do it, you don't seem to want to stop… my hands are tied."

"I'm bored," Kenny supplies quickly. That seems like something these people love hearing. Say what you want about him, Kenny McCormick is actually very adept at kissing ass. "School's boring, I need…" he gulps. "I need something that'll occupy my time. Or something."

The dean raises his eyebrows and studies him for a few moments. Honestly, Kenny's talking out of his ass in the worst way and he won't be surprised if this is the last time he's on this campus. It would make today the best day ever, that's for fucking sure. Then the dean leans forward, folding his arms over his desk and looks at Kenny over the top of his glasses.

"I will have you know that I'm not stupid," the dean purses his lips and drums his knuckles on the desk. "But I'm absolutely dying to see what you're capable of. So, I'm gonna suspend you for a week, but,"

He takes a pad of paper out of his drawer and scrawls something on it. "You're bored?" he asks, pseudo-sympathy lacing his voice as he stands and motions for Kenny to follow him down to the counseling office. "Then we're going to shift around your schedule, and _then_ you're going to sign up for at least two extracurricular activities. If that doesn't occupy your time enough, and you still find yourself getting into fights, then we'll have ourselves a dialogue. Sound good?"

"Shift?" Kenny raises his eyebrows. "What the hell are you shifting?"

When Kenny has his new class schedule in hand, wrought with advanced placement classes, and is sent home with his mother, he can't find it in himself to listen too closely to her ranting and raving. It's just about how he's no better than his lazy-ass no-good deadbeat father anyway, which he's heard about a thousand times before. He can't look away from what has to be an exact duplicate of Kyle Broflovski's timetable in his hands.

"What in the fresh hell is AP Art History," he mutters to himself instead. "How is that going to help me do anything."

"Kenneth McCormick, are you even listening to me?" his mom shouts as she comes to a stop at a red light.

"I don't wanna talk about it, ma," he mutters. He can't talk to his mom about this, anyway. Favorite or not, there are just some things a son doesn't share with his mother, and this is one of them.

Man, AP English Literature… that's gonna be a fucking _hoot_, he can already tell.

"You're suspended a week, and all you can worry about is your classes?" his mom scowls. "Hell, the worst your goddamned brother ever got was four days."

"I trumped him by a day, ma, bring out the handcuffs" Kenny rolls his eyes, and that gets him smacked, right where Gary got him on the jaw.

"Don't you dare be smart with me, young man," she warns. "Hell, I wouldn't wanna be in your shoes right now, goin' home and havin' to tell your father what you did." Kenny shifts a bit, tucking the piece of paper into his sweater pocket. The fight he'll be fine with, the suspension he won't mind—he'll balk at the new books Kenny had to pick up while he was waiting for his mom, though.

These are the kinds of books Kyle carries with him everywhere, the ones without pictures, with teeny tiny print that makes Kenny's eyes hurt (because okay he actually needs glasses and no one can afford them). They make his bag heavy and his back is already hurting.

Books like that? They're for those intellectual faggots who're taking everything away from hardworking Americans; his dad's been saying so for years.

Kenny's wanted desperately to ask why, then, Stuart feels he of all people is being attacked, but that'll get him a nice swift belt to hide, and he'd rather that didn't happen.

When they get back to the house, his mom can't stay. She's got a job at Walmart that she's had for the last two months and would like very much to keep, so she drops Kenny at the curb and tells him that his dad should be asleep for at least a few more hours.

He's not, though. Kenny gets into the house and sees his dad on the couch, Pabst in his hand and looking over at Kenny like he's a leftover acid trip from the fucking seventies.

"'the fuck are you doing home?"

"Got suspended," Kenny shrugs and shifts his bag on his shoulder. There are four big-ass books in there, more than he's ever had to carry in his life, and he's trying not to let on. English, US Government, Art History, and fucking _Environmental Science_. What the shit is his life right now?

"For what," his dad grunts.

"Fight," Kenny shrugs, and as expected his dad breaks out into a grin.

"Good for you, son," he says. "Rule one of being a man: you never let anyone push you around. You assert your dominance. How long you out for?"

"Week," Kenny replies and walks toward the stairs. His dad lets out an amused 'whoop!' that's so painfully white trash that Kenny actually gets a little pain in his forehead.

"Goddamn, boy, who'd you hit?"

"The, uh," Kenny runs his fingers over the cracked paint on the banister. "The Mormon kid."

"Mm," his dad nods. "Good, someone needs to teach those fuckin' weirdoes a lesson."

"Yeah, power to the people," Kenny mutters and raises a fist in solidarity, knowing his dad's not watching, and goes upstairs.

"Hey!" his dad calls when he's about halfway down the hall. "If you're around for a week, you're not sitting up in your room and whacking off! You're gonna help me fix shit up in this house."

"Fine!" Kenny calls back. He knows that means he's going to be stuck fixing the washer and dryer (or trying to, at least), and cleaning out the gutters and patching the roof… everything his mom has bitched at his dad to do in the last year has officially moved from a Stuart job to a Kenny job.

What's he supposed to do? He can't say 'no, I have homework to do'; a. his dad would never believe it, and b. then he'd know about the goddamned fucking smart books and burn them on a fucking pyre in the front yard. Matilda Wormwood status, that's what Kenny's life has become.

He cracks the spine of his English book—a thick tome filled to the brim with short stories and poetry and plays, and just looking at it kind of makes him start falling asleep. He looks at his phone to check the time, since he has to be at work around four, and raises an eyebrow when he sees a missed text from Stan.

'_sux about suspension and the new classes an shit. i know where you can find a good extracurric tho.'_

Kenny scowls. He knew Butters had been listening at the door, the nosy little fuckhead, and of course he couldn't wait to tell Stan. They're best friends or some shit now, right? He has half a mind to text back 'hell fucking no'. To put drama club on top of advanced classes is to actively destroy everything about himself. He'll do shop and run cross-country or something.

God, today would've just been so much better if it hadn't been for Butters fucking Stotch.


	2. Good Old Fashioned School of Lover Boys

**Chapter 2: The Good Old Fashioned School of Lover Boys**

The first day back at school after a suspension is always the worst. Not only do you have teachers looking at you like you're the most disappointing piece of shit on the planet earth, you also have people asking you left and right where the hell you've been all week.

Die for months at a time, no one gives a shit. Get suspended for a week, everyone's suddenly curious. "Where've you been, Kenny?" Fixing the hole in the roof and insulating the attic, where do you fucking think? Never ask when he actually has an interesting answer, like a cabana in Satan's courtyard or some shit.

As it stands, Kenny gets really uncomfortable around his schoolmates even on his better days, which he usually solves by hanging out behind the school and smoking a cigarette until he's placated enough to go back in.

Today, though, as much as he wants to do that, it's club rush in the plaza. This school has dozens of clubs, seemingly for everything you could ever imagine, and part of not getting chucked out of here for good means finding two that don't make him want to pluck out his eyes and commit mass homicide.

To set the scene: it's lunchtime. Pan in on young Kenny McCormick, walking around with Kyle-his good friend, his confidant-who has taken advantage of his access to the microwave in the AP Physics lab and is spooning some sort of delicious smelling soup into his face while they browse through the tables.

"I'm glad you're doing this," Kyle says as they pass the robotics club table, where a couple of kids are wrestling with a tampered Roomba.

"Why?" Kenny snorts as he adjusts his bag over his shoulder. He's got his giant book in his bag, and he's not doing a bang-up job of making too much sense of it.

"Because if you got kicked out of school I'd've kicked your ass," Kyle shrugs, stopping to add a crass pseudonym to the Young Republicans Club roster.

"Ah," Kenny nods. "Aren't you tabling for debate club or some shit?"

"Nah, Cartman's taking care of that," Kyle shakes his head.

"Young Ivy Leaguers?"

"Wendy territory, I'm afraid," Kyle supplies with another shake of his head.

"Aren't you in Mathletes?"

"No, dude, I'm not a nerd," Kyle says very frankly and it makes Kenny laugh. Kyle's good about making people laugh when they need it, and Kenny's been in dire need for weeks now. "So, what's your verdict?" Kyle asks as they complete what feels like their third round of the tables.

"Ugh, I don't know, man," Kenny grimaces. He never was great at shop, now that he's had a week to think on it. It's a fucking miracle he didn't fall off the roof this week or die of tetanus or something. He's not going to go out for any sports, because God only knows how little he wants to die from an impacted spine after being tackled. That and he's not particularly skilled at sports to begin with anyway.

His problem is that he has no interests. Not really, at least. He likes nudity, and he really likes watching movies, but he lacks a _passion_, as it would seem. He doesn't have things he likes to do, except have sex and watch movies and eat pizza and chips and stuff.

It makes his chest hurt. He used to want to help people, to save them and help make the world a better place, but how are you supposed to help people when you're too fucked up to function yourself? Once upon a time he thought he could keep himself separate from how awful his family is, that he could grow and be someone better if he tried. Something happened though and now he's just a useless sack of shit like the rest of them… except Karen. Karen's still got time to be better than all the rest of them put together.

"What about drama?" Kyle suggests through a shrug.

"Ha!" Kenny barks out a laugh. "Fuck that noise, dude, seriously."

"Why?" Kyle raises an eyebrow now. It's a challenge, Kenny realizes, and groans. He always loses those. "Dude, it's better than the alternatives. At least you know people in that club, and it's not academic or anything. You'd probably be really good at it, dude."

"The fuck makes you say that?" Kenny scowls now, folding his arms over his chest.

"You're a dramatic fuck," Kyle supplies offhandedly, rolling his eyes when Kenny glares at him. "Are you kidding me right now? You're going to sit there and tell me you're not dramatic as shit? You dressed up as a superhero until you were, like, eleven or something. You were always making a big deal about your super power being that you're immortal, which you got Butters to _believe_ for like a _week_, remember? The list goes on, dude. I don't want to, but I'll name every last goddamn thing."

Kenny does actually consider this for a moment before he realizes that Kyle will talk forever and decides against it.

"I'm not dramatic," he insists instead.

"You punched Gary in the face for no reason," Kyle points out then. "Stupid, reckless, and immature. Also dramatic as fuck."

Kenny gives Kyle a hard look, even though he knows it's useless because Kyle is relentless about this kind of thing. He falters and folds his arms over his chest, "Fine…" he trails off before proving Kyle's point. He whines a little bit and bouncing up and down, "I don't wanna be in drama club, though, dude."

"More than you don't want to be expelled?" Kyle raises his eyebrow and puts a cap on his thermos. "You could always run Key Club with Gary," he offers and pulls a spectacularly derp-worthy face that makes Kenny roll his eyes and shove him with his shoulder. Fucking Kyle and his fucking… fuck.

Kenny looks over to where Gary and a few of the church kids are excitedly talking about feeding the poor or cleaning up state parks or some shit. God knows he doesn't need that in his life. He glances at the drama club table, where Butters and Red are trying to incite passers-by and failing miserably. Kenny sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He feels a little bad for them—being in plays and shit isn't so bad, maybe. In fact, somewhere deep down Kenny thinks it could actually be cool.

And if not, he can always work lights or something.

With a resigned sigh, Kenny walks over to the table, knowing full well that Kyle's going to follow him and stand there and watch him sign a piece of paper (like he's fucking six or something) and shoves his hands in his pockets. His gut clenches when Butters and Red look up at him. They appear to be confused.

Kenny can't say he blames them.

"Uh, hey guys," he says and shifts his bag on his shoulder again. "Um… what's the deal with this? Or whatever."

Butters gives him a look, and for a brief, mind-fuckingly frightening moment Kenny locks eyes with him. He knew his eyes were big and round and blue, but fixed below a furrowed brow in a scrutinizing glare they look like they could pierce right through Kenny.

He doesn't like it.

"Really?" Butters just asks, and Kenny sighs and screws his eyes shut. Fine, Butters really doesn't have a reason to believe Kenny wants to do this, he'll admit that, but Kenny doesn't need to be any more discouraged than he already is. He feels about three feet tall right now, and he doesn't like it.

Butters doesn't cut people down, not like this.

"Look, don't give me a fucking hard time," Kenny just sighs and runs his fingers through his hair."You know I have to do this, and drama seems… cool enough."

The words burn. Oh, how they _burn_.

"All right, jeez," Butters draws back now, which leads Kenny to believe that he may have really just been expressing genuine curiosity at Kenny's interest, not passing judgment.

Shit.

"Sorry," he mutters. He doesn't bother with a lame excuse, mostly because he's sure Butters wouldn't believe it anyway. "So, can I join?"

Butters glances over at Red, who's got her legs crossed and eyebrow raised and actually _is_ giving Kenny a look that makes him feel like a piece of shit. Kenny folds his arms over his chest, resisting the urge to draw the strings of his hood shut and hide.

"'course you can," Butters beams then and pushes a sign-up sheet and a pencil across the table. "Our meetings are usually on Tuesdays at lunchtime in room 309, but we're havin' one after school in that same room, just to welcome new members an' have a little fun. Once we get auditions set an' start rehearsals we'll set up the regular afterschool meetings. Sound all right?"

"Better than expulsion," Kenny mumbles and signs his name, the third on the page, and hands the pencil back to Butters. Their fingers brush, at which point Kenny's life turns into an eighties teen movie and his heart speeds up a little.

He's actually a little disgusted by himself right now.

"Anything else?" Red interjects harshly, and Kenny realizes he's been staring at Butters a little too long, and Butters is giving him a look.

Okay, paranoia aside, that's definitely a very… _understanding_ look.

"Jesus, Red, cover your bitch up, there's kids around," Kyle shoots back, but Red just rolls her eyes.

"Would you pipe the fuck down, Broflovski?" she shakes her head. "He was rude first, you sanctimonious piece of shit."

"Oh, hold up, 'sanctimonious'," Kyle holds his arms out. "Tips at Hooters are for big tits, not big words; start honing your skills now."

Kenny has to drag Kyle out of a literal line of fire as Red starts crumpling up fliers and throwing them at Kyle's head. He doesn't get the chance to go sign up for Auto club, which he's kind of down for until he sees that Fosse is the headlining member at the table and changes his mind. Fosse's the kind of dick who never grew out of being a total tool, and age has only made it worse. Kenny's gotten into fights with people like him and Bill, who ask Kenny if he's 'some kind of queer' when they catch him smiling or whistling at his locker or something.

It's not only annoying, but Jesus Christ, a guy can't whistle?

Kenny and Kyle part when they come to Kenny's art history class. It's taught in the art room, by the art teacher (who's this old hippie from Portland who somehow ended up in this fucking redneck stretch of the Rockies), but without all the fun art stuff. It's only Kenny's first day, and already he's bored.

What should he care about some old painter from Italy, anyway? Knowing this shit isn't going to pay his rent when he gets older. He takes to doodling in his notes, something he's always done. After years of practice, watching Disney movies with Karen and Adult Swim with Kevin, he likes to think he's pretty good. Not professional or anything, but he can draw a chick with a nice rack like nobody's business.

He has last period off, which means he's the last one left in class as everyone rushes off. Truth be told, he'd spaced out a little and had temporarily forgotten how to be awake for the last ten minutes of class, which usually ends up in a detention for him. He's never had the art teacher, Ms. Epstein is her name he _thinks_, but she doesn't yell at him for dozing off, and is in fact preoccupied with the doodles at the bottom of his rather sparse notes.

"Those're neat," she says with a smile when Kenny comes to. "Have you ever taken an art class with me?"

Kenny feels like that's something this woman should know, whether or not he's been her student before.

"No," he just shakes his head and shuts his notebook.

"Well, those were quite good then," she gives him a smile and goes back to her desk. "We have a cartooning club on campus. Did you know that?"

He did. He hadn't recognized anyone at the table today, which was almost enough to get him to sign up just based on the fact that he's not entirely fond of the people he already knows. He knows he's not good enough at it to be in a club fully dedicated to it, though, so he refrained.

"Um, I'm not that great," he says and slips his notebook back into his bag.

"Well, the only way you improve is by doing," Ms. Epstein shrugs. She grabs a pen out of an obviously hand-made ceramic mug and starts jotting something down on a sheet of paper. "We meet here on Thursdays at lunch. Some Fridays we go to the Macaroni Grill in Littleton and make group projects on their paper table cloths. It's a small group, but we'd be happy to have you."

Kenny feels a weird pull in his stomach, and suddenly wonders if this is what it's like to have a supportive adult in your life.

His parents used to be supportive, used to let him take singing lessons and shit, but then he got too big for that and they got into too much trouble and suddenly it wasn't "what do you want to do" but "this is what you have to do".

"Uh, thanks," he says and takes the paper from her. It's the information she's just relayed, plus her email address.

"If you have any questions, or just want to talk, I'm here," she says with a smile. "There are some things in life you can't discuss with anyone but an artist."

Kenny's not entirely sure of what that means, or what any of this means, really. All he knows is his stomach is empty and he and Kyle have sixth period off and that he said he'd take him to Sonic. He tosses out another thank you before he goes to meet Kyle down in the main office, where he's waiting behind a line of students to sign himself out.

"Hey, man, how was computers?" Kenny asks. Okay, it's _AP Computer Science_, but he already feels like enough of a tool asking Kyle about how his class went. He doesn't need to make it worse.

"Ugh, it can suck my dick," Kyle mutters. "Everything this wad is teaching us I already know."

Kenny nods, wondering how it must feel to be ahead of the curve. He's never been ahead of anything in school, and now it's probably close to hopeless.

He sees the dean only a second too late, and instead of hiding behind Kyle he sort of just awkwardly squishes against him.

"Hello, Kenny," the dean smiles, and if it's not malicious in its amusement, it's in no way genuinely kind. "How are your classes treating you? Sorry I couldn't fit you into any with your friend Kyle here."

"They're fine," Kenny says, careful not to give him too much attitude. He doesn't think he can handle anymore suspensions. His dad was running out of things for him to do by the end of the week, so he just had him get him more beers and that had ended in a few nasty spats that Kenny's not too keen on thinking about at the moment.

"Find any clubs to join?" the dean asks, still smiling.

"Drama club," Kyle pipes up, because somehow Kyle's still a little protective of him even though he's far from needing it. "He's going to one of their meetings after school."

"And cartoon club," Kenny chimes in and pulls Ms. Epstein's note out of his pocket. "Thursdays at lunch."

"Ahh," the dean grins as he looks at Ms. Epstein's note, looking genuinely impressed. "Very nice, McCormick. Those'll be good for you. Creativity, all that good stuff. Good. I'm excited to see the results. Maybe I'll stop by that drama meeting after school, say hello."

The dean pushes the note back into his hand, gives both him and Kyle a smile, and walks back toward his office. Kenny lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and scratches his head under his hood as Kyle signs himself out.

"Fuck," he says just as Kyle moves aside and he can sign his own name. "Fuck it, I didn't want to go to that."

"Dude, calm the fuck down," Kyle rolls his eyes. "You'll go, you'll sit in the back, it won't be a big deal. Jesus, what is with you lately?"

"Nothing's with me," Kenny scowls as they make their way out of the office and that's the end of that. That's the nice thing about Kyle: he's quick to drop shit you don't want to talk about. He's not like Stan, who exhaustively badgers you with bullshit questions until you break down and tell him something stupid just to get him to shut up.

Kenny eats his weight in tater tots and cheeseburgers, downing it all with a strawberry milkshake that he makes Kyle swear he'll never mention. By the time he's done he's full and sated enough not to care that he's going to have to sit through some drama club fuckery for who knows how long.

When he gets to the classroom, he looks to be the last one there. Wendy and Butters are at the front of the classroom, Wendy standing and Butters sitting cross-legged up on a desk, and stop talking when he comes in, looking directly at him like he's got daisies growing out of his ears.

He hates this. Oh, god, how he hates this.

He takes a seat beside Stan, who's sitting close to the back of the room at least, before hugging his bag close to his chest and sinking low in his seat. Stan gives him a curious look, which Kenny meets with a shake of his head and a 'don't ask' sort of face. Gary's sitting on the other side of him, which makes Kenny's gut twist unpleasantly, but he tries not to think on it.

Except the only other place to look is Butters and Wendy. He's not so sure he likes this.

"All right," Wendy finally continues, "This is really just a meeting for everyone to just sort of get to know each other, and for us to talk a little bit about what we do."

While she rattles on about the importance of the dramatic arts, Kenny takes a look around. This is the saddest collection of people he's ever seen, with the exception of Bebe and Red, of course. Annie and Heidi are sitting off to the side, plus a lot of girls from North Park that he's seen around. A lot of bespectacled girls who aren't quite out of their awkward stages yet, who probably talk loudly and at length about the different obscure TV shows they watch.

Nerds. Kenny is surrounded by nerds.

"—So, in the interest of getting to know everyone," Wendy continues, "I'd like to just go around the room and have you guys say something quick about yourselves. Your name, your grade, why you're here, and an interesting fact about yourselves."

There's a slight intake of breath from some of the younger members (and a groan from Kenny that's quickly stomped out by a swift elbow to the side, courtesy of Stan) that makes Butters give a little laugh.

"You guys are afraid of public speakin', you picked the wrong club," he gives a wry smile and, rather infuriatingly, catches Kenny's eye. He holds his gaze for a second too long, a look of absolute knowing behind those eyes, before turning to pay attention to Wendy.

"Hi, I'm Wendy Testaburger and I'm a senior," she grins proudly. "I'm here because I love how much fun we have in this club and how many great people are back for another year. I'm ASB president, I run the Young Democrats chapter on campus, I'm in debate club, and I've also been on our school's academic decathlon team for the last two years. As you can imagine, I've got a lot on my plate this year, so I'll pass it off to my co-captain here..."

Kenny feels a pleasant stir in his gut when Butters beams at her and then turns his smile to the rest of the room and waves, which he quickly stomps out and fixes his face with a scowl.

"Hi, I'm Butters," he says and folds his hands in his lap. "That's what everyone calls me, so don't bother askin' me otherwise. I'm a senior, an' I'm here 'cause I watched way too many Gene Kelly movies when I was a kid."

Kenny can't help it; he laughs at that. He's watched every movie they stock at work at least once, and _Singin' in the Rain_ is definitely one of the ones that he liked way more than he thought he would. He realizes then that people are staring back at him and he quickly pulls the strings on his hood. Butters doesn't stop looking at him, though, until Wendy mentions that he forgot to include his interesting fact.

"My interesting fact was that I watched a lotta Gene Kelly movies," Butters tosses back. "Some of us like bein' efficient when we answer questions."

There's a low rumble of laughter when Butters sticks out his tongue at Wendy, and Kenny feels his cheeks color. He thinks he might actually kind of like Butters right now—only that's stupid. Of course he's always liked Butters. You can't _not_ like Butters; that's what's so goddamned infuriating about him.

Even as other people introduce themselves, Butters keeps letting his eyes dart back to Kenny. Kenny only knows this, of course, because he can't find it in himself to look anywhere other than Butters.

And just like that Kenny sees it. He thinks Butters might know. Like, _know—_if not about the sexy dreams then at least that Kenny's not normal. He may be dumb about a lot of stuff, but Butters is very adept at feeling out people from what Kenny's gathered, and that's the scariest fucking thing Kenny's ever seen.

He doesn't even realize that Stan and Gary have already gone, that it's now his turn to stand up and talk, and his mind's a blank. What's his name again? Grade? What's a grade? Interesting? He's not interesting.

"Don't just sit there like a bump on a pickle," Butters chides as Stan prods Kenny to his feet. Even when he's chastising, Butters has the biggest smile on his face, and Kenny begs his brain harder than ever to refrain from offering up "I think I might like to try sucking cock" as his interesting fact.

"Um, I'm Kenny," he gives an awkward wave.

"Undo your hood, we can't hear you," Butters gives a belligerent little frown.

"Yes, projection, darling," Wendy rights her spine and thrusts her chest out, voice booming more loudly than usual.

"Gotta see that mouth a'yours," Butters grins then, and Kenny feels his breath catch.

_Oh_… oh, what an _asshole_.

Grudgingly, he unties the strings on his hood and opens it up, but won't pull it down. He'll be lucky if he can keep a fucking erection at bay with Butters staring at him, smiling like this.

"I'm Kenny, I'm a senior, and I'm here because I'd be expelled if I wasn't," Kenny comes out with it quickly, like pulling off a band-aid. "Stotch method: interesting fact and reason all in one."

He plops back down and refuses to speak for the rest of the meeting. Well, that's his plan, at least. Stan kind of destroys that when he leans over and whispers, "Okay, you really need to chill the fuck out with being a dick to Butters."

"I thought I was," Kenny mumbles back, looking fixedly at the seat in front of him.

"Well, try harder," Stan insists. "He doesn't deserve it, especially when all he is is fucking nice to you, okay?"

"What about Joseph Smith over there," Kenny nods. "He's the one I punched in the face."

"My face is fine," Gary insists, though not with the slightest ounce of sarcasm that Kenny expected after having been friends with people like Kyle and Cartman for so long.

"Gary can take care of himself, dude," Stan scowls.

"I'm autonomous," Gary agrees with a nod.

"Butters doesn't deserve the crap people put him through, and he's really bad at not taking it," Stan mutters. "He's a good guy. That's not a fucking invitation to see who can take the biggest shit on him, okay?"

"Okay, okay!" Kenny practically yelps, which only draws more attention to him and prompts Butters to cross his arms and loudly ask if he has anything he'd like to share.

Butters can't take shit… yeah fucking right.

Wendy and Butters launch into a discussion about their wintertime play, which turns out to be A Charlie Brown Christmas. Upon hearing this, Kenny is ready to declare this the gayest thing he's ever heard and leave, but Stan catches him and pulls him back. They end the meeting by posting audition sheets at the front of the room, and Kenny moves to duck out before the rush.

"Hey, you want a ride home?" Stan asks.

"Yeah, I'll meet you at your car," Kenny nods and slips out of the room before Butters can get to him or anything. Goddamn it, that fucking dick dean didn't even show up. He just put himself through all that shit for _nothing_ on top of everything.

Rather than go wait in the parking lot, he heads to the bathroom up on the fourth floor, since that's the one that's always deserted, and pulls a joint he squirreled away in his pack of cigarettes.

Anything to take the edge off this fucking afternoon. He lights up and takes a deep drag, holding it in as long as possible to diminish the amount of smoke he lets out when he exhales. He takes another, and another, repeating this process until he's pretty sure he'll be good and gone for a few hours. He licks his fingers and puts it out before slipping it back into his pack—Kevin usually gives him pretty crap stuff, but he switched the good stuff out of his sock drawer for a bag of the cheaper stuff… Kevin's such a crap dealer that he doesn't even realize.

He sits there for a few minutes, or it might be longer, he's not sure, before he decides he's okay to reenter society. Then he sits there for a little while longer because he's not at the point where his legs want to work quite yet. He really is about to get up though when he hears the door open and a two pairs of shoes squeaking along the tile as they shuffle in. Kenny lifts his feet up, hiding just in case some nefarious deeds are about.

"He's waiting at the car, isn't he?"Kenny hears the familiar tones of Gary's voice echoing off the tile walls.

"Dude, just chill," that's Stan, and soon to follow are the very unsubtle, unmistakable sounds of lips on lips that, if Kenny hadn't just smoked, would've made his mind explode.

He peeks out through the crack in the door and sees Stan sandwiched between Gary and the wall, arms around Gary's neck and looking to be enjoying the ever-loving fuck out of macking with him. It's one of the strangest sights Kenny's ever seen. He'd always thought two guys kissing would be slow and sensual, like girls got when they kissed sometimes, but this is… This is _two guys kissing_. Gary's got Stan against the wall and Stan looks not unlike he's trying to fuck Gary's mouth with his tongue.

Even with the delay from the pot, Kenny's getting astonishingly hard. He realizes this of course and is hit soon (or maybe not soon) after by a wave of overwhelming nausea as his heart starts slamming against his ribs.

Fuck, this is not okay. Not okay at all.

Quietly, Kenny attempts to pick up his bag and slip out of the stall unnoticed, but he's apparently not doing a very good job of it. He attempts to push the stall door instead of pull, and when he finally manages to get out of there, he trips over his shoelaces and knocks right into the wall.

"Kenny, what the fuck!" Stan shouts as Gary flies back and goes to duck behind him a bit.

"What do you—" Kenny begins. "Me? What about you! I'm not… tonguing Donny Osmond in a school bathroom. Jesus fucking Christ, have some goddamned dignity."

"I'm kind of starting to think you don't actually know my name," Gary interjects with a frown and Kenny rolls his eyes, resolving to take off again, only to bump right back into the wall.

"This bathroom's a fucking labyrinth, I swear to god," Kenny mutters and goes to push the out of the bathroom with his entire body, only to find out, once again, that he is apparently lacking an ability to work doors.

He stumbles back out into the hallway, coughing a little as he makes his way down to the parking lot. Maybe someone's still here and will give him a ride out of the kindness of their hearts. Either that or he can call Kyle again. Kyle's picked him up under worse circumstances.

And he can tell Kyle just exactly what his _super best friend_ or whatever the fuck is getting up to when he thinks no one's looking. Maybe Kyle could talk some sense into him or something.

When he gets to the parking lot, he sees Bebe by her car, sunglasses down over her eyes and she talks with Wendy about something or another. She must see Kenny though, because she gives him a wave, and when Kenny waves back Wendy looks between the two of them and gives Bebe a little knowing shake of her head before heading off to her own car.

"Hey there, stranger," Bebe smiles as Kenny comes up to her. "Need a lift?"

"Dang, girl, you can read me like a book," Kenny gives her a hazy grin that makes her look over the tops of her glasses and laugh.

"Son, you high," she tsks as she opens her car door, "Get in before you hurt yourself."

Kenny gives her a little salute and ducks into her car, buckling in for safety of course, and starts in on a long internal debate over whether or not he should tell her about what he's just seen. She'll probably think it's funny, gasp-worthy even, and it'd be all over the school by tomorrow because she's got an even bigger mouth than Kyle about shit like this.

Somehow, Kenny doesn't think Stan or Gary would appreciate this very much.

Oh god, he just saw Stan and Gary _making out_, didn't he?

Kenny sinks low in his seat and pulls the drawstrings of his hood nice and tight. He doesn't want to be part of a world where Stan makes out with guys… least of all guys like Gary. Somehow this makes everything more real, like if it could happen to Stan then it could definitely happen to Kenny.

God, this is fucked.

"You okay?" he hears Bebe ask. There's a bit of delay before he remembers to nod his head and kicks his feet up on the dash.

"Got a lot on my mind," he manages, and Bebe nods.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" she asks, sympathetic, and Kenny replies with a loud, adamant, "No way in _hell_."

They get to Kenny's house after a stretch of driving, during which Bebe hooks up her iPod and lets Kenny pick what they listen to. She's got an impressive collection of AC/DC, which Kenny appreciates in a woman, and puts on 'Big Balls' just to be an ass. That, and he likes the way she rolls her eyes and smiles when Kenny gives her a cheeky grin.

She's really fucking pretty when she's pretending she's not amused.

"You're a piece of work, you know that?" she says when she rolls to a stop outside Kenny's house, not at all bothering to hide her smile. Kenny's smile broadens as he leans up to peck her on the cheek, and he's almost giddy when she maneuvers so that her lips are sliding gently against his.

Maybe he just needs to focus on this for a little while, y'know? Making out with a pretty girl in her car. Kenny brushes his knuckles up Bebe's side and over the swell of her breast before unabashedly copping a feel. He laughs a little when she does, and wraps his arms around her as they kiss some more. Her chest is pillowed warm against his, and Kenny gets to wondering how two dudes manage to cope with the lack of tits between them.

_Fuck_. Now he's got Stan and Gary back in his head, all rough and tearing at each other's mouths _just _as Bebe reaches down to grab at his dick through his jeans.

Fuck, he can't do this—not with two dudes polluting his head like this. He tears away, not knowing if he's disgusted or confused or if he's just high as a fucking kite.

"Sorry," he mutters and opens the door. "I can't right now. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Um, yeah," Bebe pulls a little frown, not upset so much as it is curious Kenny thinks, but he doesn't want to dwell. He gives her a wave and makes a bee line for his front door. His and Kevin's truck is in the driveway, so that means he's still home on top of everything else, which is just… fucking great.

Kevin is apparently not having the same problems as Kenny. If the topless, bleach blonde girl straddling his lap on their shitty couch is anything to go by. She doesn't have any clothes on, just a cheap leopard print bra with black lace and the panties to match and Kenny knows he's staring but he actually cannot help it. His brother always manages to find the trashiest girls in the fucking state, and it's a wonder he doesn't have a bunch of little pissheaded children running around a trailer park somewhere.

"The fuck are you looking at, cockface?" Kevin pulls away from his place in this girl's chest, and Kenny shakes his head.

"Don't call me by my slave name," Kenny just shoots back loudly, because he thinks he's funny sometimes and it's absolutely lost on this family most of the time. Only he can't deal with this shit right now, so he doesn't bother to stick around for a verbal sparring, just heads up the stairs.

He accidentally ends up in Karen's room, where she's sitting in a beanbag chair and reading through an issue of Cosmo Kenny lifted for her the other day, which prompts him to shake his head and play it off like he meant to do it. Karen doesn't like that he smokes, but Kenny suspects it's only because she doesn't like being the only sober person in a room. He can't say he blames her.

"Are you okay?" Karen asks, and Kenny figures he must be looking about as disturbed and sick as he feels.

"Kevin has a girl downstairs," he grabs at his stomach and sits on her bed. Karen rolls her eyes and shakes her head.

"I know," she says. "I think he brought her home last night. I didn't even catch her name when I got home before I ran up here with my hands over my eyes. Is she wearing clothes yet? She wasn't when I got home. I've seen things, Kenny. Very big, very fake things."

Kenny throws his head back and laughs, because Karen is funny. Funny like he is, in the way that Kevin and their parents don't like.

"Fuck, you know he doesn't know her name either," he says. "God, it's probably something like _Trixie_ or _Chastity_ or something."

They laugh for a bit, both incapacitated by it, and somehow Kenny ends up behind her, braiding her hair. It's only something he ever does when he's drunk or high and he needs to do something with his hands to keep himself occupied. Not that he wants to brag, but he can braid the fuck out of hair. Regular, reverse, French, fish-tail… he is the master of braids.

"Good God," Karen says as she flips through her magazine. "Do guys really like this kind of thing?"

"Probably not," Kenny responds through a yawn, still hazy and not at all in the mood to discuss what men do or don't like to do in bed. Because he doesn't care. At all. "Why do you care?"

Aside from the fact that she is a heterosexual teenage girl.

"No reason," Karen shrugs, lets a few beats pass before she turns and confesses, "There's this guy from North Park who asked me out tomorrow night. Just wanted to know what I'm in for if it goes anywhere."

There's something that goes sour in his stomach and effectively kills his entire buzz when he realizes that even his little sister is thinking about sex.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Kenny stands, abandoning a braid halfway through, "Is fucking all anyone can fucking think about right now?"

"Whoa," Karen frowns as Kenny grabs his bag off the floor. "Dude, are you okay?"

"I'm fucking fine!" he shouts, which prompts Karen to shout back, "Don't yell at me, asshole!"

Kenny flips her off before he leaves her room and tromps back downstairs, where Kevin and Ellie fucking May are squished against each other, mostly naked and grinding like there aren't two minors in the house.

It's like a bad film sequence that Kenny can't escape. Sex-sex is the only thing the world wants to throw at him right now, and it's like he's being punished for not seizing an opportunity with Bebe in her car. He blows right past them and out the door, determined as almighty fuck to clear his head before he goes nuts. He never thought he'd say this, but he's so fucking tired of sex that it's not even funny. It's painful to think, and he actually sort of hates himself for doing so, but he feels downright suffocated by it. The things he enjoys, the things that make him a normal red-blooded American boy, are the things he's not getting; the things that pollute his mind and leave him hard and aching with want are the things that would have him lynched by certain members of his family.

He finds himself in Tweak Bros. He's not sure how long ago he left the house or what even drove him here, aside from the fact that they have good coffee and delicious muffins that are the size of Kenny's face.

He orders a large coffee and a blueberry muffin, and he's never been happier at a prospective dinner. He thanks Tweek kindly, giving a slight bow and a tip of an imaginary cap as he turns to find a table to sit at.

The tables are all mostly empty, except for a few. Butters is sitting by himself at one, and once he sees this, Kenny can't let it go. He can't sit somewhere else, no matter what his brain tells him. He's feeling that weird mix of irritation, anger, and regret (but only when he remembers that Stan told him that he's been too mean to him). Butters looks up from the book he's reading and catches Kenny's eye with a smile. Kenny rolls his eyes when he gives him a little wave and, instead of stalking out of the store without a word, walks over and asks if he can sit with him.

Fuck, he must be high.

Butters looks a little taken aback, but nods anyway.

"Sure, Ken," he says, and Kenny plops down rather unceremoniously with his mug of coffee and warm muffin on his little white plate. His stomach is rumbling and he doesn't much care that Butters is looking at him like he's crazy. He's had a long day, okay?

"What?" he asks when he looks up and sees Butters looking right through him, smile on his face and grabbing at the back of his neck. Butters just shakes his head and looks back down at his book.

"Nothin'," he says, smile still not gone from his face. "Had an interesting afternoon, huh?"

"Yeah, really fuckin' enlightening," Kenny shoots back suddenly and slams his muffin back onto his plate. He doesn't want to eat anymore, especially not when Butters glances back up at him with a serious look in his eyes.

"You know you can't say anythin' about it, right?" he asks Kenny softly, and when Kenny just gives him a blank stare back, he shuts his book and leans forward on the table with an imploring look on his face.

"Kenny, this is serious, all right?" Butters says softly, a hint of urgency to it. "I know you don't care about this kinda thing, but you can't just go around outing people—especially Gary."

"Why especially him?" Kenny scowls. "What the fuck should I care if people know he sucks Stan's cock?"

"Because!" Butters flails a bit, trying to get him to hush up. "Gary's Mormon. They take that stuff real seriously, okay?"

When Kenny rolls his eyes, Butters takes a wadded up napkin off the table and throws it at him.

"At the very least," he continues, "It's a general rule that you don't just go and _out_ people, all right? It's rude."

Kenny's about to snap back, but then remembers Stan's plea for him to be nicer to Butters. It'd probably behoove Kenny to heed Stan's words. Stan's on the football team; he could take Kenny down in an instant if he really wanted. Fuck, if Gary could make him go down as hard as he did, there's no question Stan could annihilate him.

He takes a big chunk out of his muffin and stuffs it in his mouth, chewing it while he hopes that Butters will stop staring at him.

This is not happening, though, so Kenny looks at him again and, after swallowing, takes a gulp of coffee before finally coming out with, "I'm sorry."

Butters perks up at this, blinking his big blue eyes in an entirely infuriating way, and, honest to god, his cheeks turn an impossibly bright shade of pink.

"Wha-what?" he stammers a bit, and Kenny shrugs, picking at his muffin again.

"I guess I'm a dick to you," he says. "I should stop, so I'm sorry."

"Oh," Butters pouts a little and sinks back into his seat. "I-I reckon no one's ever apologized to me for somethin' like that before, but… thanks?"

"I aim to please," Kenny raises his mug and takes another sip before offering, "Also I'm pretty high."

The buzz may have worn off, but weed, as a rule, makes him way nicer than normal. Butters looks at him for a long hard second before he's caught up in a fit of giggles and buries his face in his hands.

"That explains a lot," he says. "I was wonderin' why you weren't bein' followed by your regular little black raincloud."

Kenny flips him off, but it makes Butters laugh a little harder, so he doesn't make too much of it. He works slowly at his muffin and coffee, not wanting to finish and be left without an excuse to not go home. He and Butters don't talk for a while, Kenny focusing on his food while Butters returns to his book. Eventually it makes its way into Kenny's mind to cock his head and see what he's reading. It's _Frankenstein_, which Kenny thinks he's probably supposed to be reading for English class.

Then it hits him.

"Dude, you're in a bunch of my classes now, aren't you?"

Butters doesn't look up from the book, just smiles and says, "Yup. You're quite the academic this year, aren't you?"

"Okay!" Kenny flies forward, fully getting Butters' attention now. "That fuckhole dean knows I'm friends with Kyle and totally dicked me out of being in the same classes as him so I won't cheat or something. Fucked, right?"

"Totally," Butters gives him a long, exaggerated nod.

"But you—you're pretty good at this shit, right?" Kenny asks. Butters smirks now, drumming his fingers on the table as he gives Kenny a calculating look.

"Kenny McCormick, are you propositioning me?" he asks.

Kenny pales at this, completely frozen. If there was any doubt leftover in Kenny's mind, it's gone now. Butters Stotch knows, and fuck.

_Fuck_.

He's flirting with him.

Butters is _flirting_ with him.

And Kenny's not entirely sure of how to proceed, because Butters is not... he's got… it's just—fuck, he's not a girl. It'd be different if Butters was a girl. Kenny knows how to handle that. He'd toss out a charming smile and lean forward, maybe knock his boots against Butters' shoes under the table, except _goddamn it_ Butters is not a girl. He's got a pretty face, yeah sure okay _fine_, but his jaw is all angles and he's got these broad shoulders and big hands that are all square and rough-looking. They're all covered in calluses, the backs all marred by cuts and scrapes and scars… kind of like Kenny's are.

Suddenly Kenny finds himself wondering how these rough hands might feel against his skin. He likes the feeling of soft hands, smaller hands, but there's just something about the way Butters' sit against the table that leads Kenny to believe that they know their way around another person's body, and it's making his mouth more than a little dry.

"Hey there, Space Ranger, see somethin' you like?"

Kenny is pulled instantly out of his head, all hot in the face as Butters starts laughing again. "Sorry," he mutters, and Butters jut waves a hand and moves to put his book back in his bag.

"Don't worry about it," he says absently, still amused as ever when he looks back up at Kenny. "I'd better get goin'… can I give you a lift?"

"No," Kenny answers very suddenly, leading Butters to raise his eyebrows and Kenny to shake his head. "Sorry, I just meant…" _say nothing about your erection, Kenneth. Nothing. _"I'd rather walk tonight. Thanks, though."

"Okay," Butters frowns skeptically as he stands. "You sure you'll be all right?" He slips on his bomber jacket and slings his bag over his chest, which almost prompts Kenny to reply with a 'no, no I won't be you asshole'.

"Yeah, fine," he nods instead. Butters gives a little shrug before he raises his hand in a wave.

"See you at school tomorrow, then," he says through a smile and leaves, stopping at the door to turn and give Kenny what has to be the most genuine, "Be safe" Kenny has ever heard. He replies by giving a salute and waits until he sees Butters' headlights flip on through the window to draw his hood tight and smack his head on the table.

It's not the first boner he's gotten in public because of Butters Stotch, and he's a little horrified when he realizes he's already accepted that it probably won't be his last.

* * *

**Thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed! I'm super stoked for this story. I'll try to stay a little more on top of updates, I promise. **

**Chapter title comes from _Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy_ by Queen. **

**Last chapter title (and title of the whole fic) comes from _Blame it on the Girls_ by Mika, but I totally dorked up and forgot to mention it. **


	3. Why Do These Words Sound So Nasty?

**Chapter 3: Father, Why Do These Words Sound So Nasty?**

Kenny has spent the better part of the last two weeks ignoring Stan. This works out to his advantage most of the time, since he can just pass off that he's studying with Kyle and Cartman in lieu of hanging out with Stan because, "sorry dude, can't fail out of my classes."Stan gets it, for the most part, even if every time Kenny ducks behind a trashcan or the nearest available fat kid he gets this look of pained loss on his face and trudges off the other way.

Butters catches him doing this on several occasions, but since Kenny's doing his damndest to avoid him too, he evades being scolded. Mostly, he hangs out with Kyle and Cartman. They're pretty safe bets, always smoking or having arguments behind the gym… Kenny thought it was weird at first, but he sort of sees it now. They're both dangerously smart, probably the smartest guys in school, and cool as they are around Stan and Kenny, they're each the only one that's on the other's level. They're the kinds of guys who thrive not only on intellectual stimulation, but _winning_. That's what their conversations are: a fucking chess match, only with a lot more hostility and about the same amount of swearing.

Kenny doesn't mind it. He's content to listen to them tear at each other's throats while he tries to make sense of his books, occasionally reading more complicated sentences aloud until they start making some semblance of sense.

It's difficult, but he actually kind of likes it. It stretches his brain in new and interesting ways, ways that he never thought possible. Feeling smart is kind of cool.

He gets most of his stuff wrong, but that's because, as Kyle says, he's not used to it yet.

Today Kyle and Cartman are arguing over the finer points of vectors or some stupid math shit while Kenny stares at one of the pictures in his art book. School ended a while ago and neither Cartman nor Kyle has taken notice that Kenny's waiting for a ride home, so he just looks at his book instead. This particular piece is straight out of pop art, according to the book, and Ms. Epstein said they might not even get to it, but Kenny thinks it's way cooler than Rembrandt or whoever.

He doesn't look up until someone casts a shadow over his book—and this someone happens to be the owner of a very bright yellow pair of converse. Kenny sighs and leans back against the wall, "What do you want, Butters?"

"Nice to see you too," Butters clips back, a little impatient as he folds his arms across his chest. "Know what today is?"

"Our anniversary?" Kenny deadpans as he returns to his book, pausing only to light another cigarette—his third of the afternoon.

Butters rolls his eyes, "Auditions, Kenny." When Kenny stares blankly back at him, Butters sighs and braces his hands on his hips. Okay, it's way fun to annoy Butters. He gets all flustered and huffy and Kenny would think it's kind of cute if he thought guys were cute.

Which he does not, right?

Right.

"Kenny, you said you'd help," Butters pleas desperately.

"Oh," Kenny frowns, taking a deep drag and blowing it in Kyle's and Cartman's direction. They've stopped fighting and are now paying full attention to him and Butters. "I only said that because I thought 'help' meant, like… stay the fuck out of your way."

"Why in the hell would it mean that?" Butters asks, genuinely confused.

"That's what it means in my house," Kenny shrugs, which gets another eye-roll from Butters and a couple of amused snorts from Kyle and Cartman.

"Butters why the fuck are you trying to corrupt Kenny," Cartman scoffs. "Can't you see he has enough problems as it is?"

Kenny flips him off and shuts his book, though not before marking his page. He doesn't get up though, just keeps staring up at Butters. He feels in the mood to be particularly difficult today.

"Gotta tell ya," he says with a shake of his head. "I'm not really feelin' the whole drama thing today."

It's a dick move, but now he's just kind of eager to hear how Butters will get him to go. Plus, any chance to incense him further is just aces in Kenny's book.

"Fine," is what Butters says instead, though he doesn't exactly have a look of defeat about him. "If you don't wanna help, don't. Would you please just come talk to Stan?"

Kenny feels Kyle's field of energy shift beside him, going from light and humming to stark and anxious in the blink of an eye.

"What's wrong with Stan?" he asks, and Kenny looks up to see a disturbed-looking scowl twist at his lips. Cartman's looking at him too, and both he and Kenny turn to look at Butters at the same time. Butters shifts a little, gathering that he's said too much, and starts immediately playing with his fingers.

"Uh, gee," he shrinks a bit, "Well, that's really between Stan and Kenny, isn't it?"

"Fuck it," Kyle shrugs, like it's no big deal as he goes go grab his bag off the ground. "If he's upset, I'll talk to him. That's what best friends are supposed to do or some shit, right?"

"Ah, I-I don't know if that's a good idea," Butters offers, which predictably only makes Kyle's defenses fly up as his face contorts into a scowl.

"Why the fuck not?" he demands, and Butters jumps back a bit, shaking his head and kneading his fists together that makes Kenny's heart kind of hurt. He puts his book back in his bag and stands, drawing his hood tight and crossing his arms.

"Just leave it, dude," he shrugs, which only makes Kyle's eyes bug out as he indignantly shouts, "I will _not_ just fucking _leave it_. What the fuck did you do?"

"I didn't do shit, calm down," Kenny rolls his eyes. "Don't worry about it, all right?"

"Yeah, Kyle," Cartman snorts. "If your girlfriend's on her rag, you'd better leave her be anyway."

Bless the powers that be for Cartman's dickishness Kyle's notoriously short fuse. While Kyle turns and starts laying into Cartman, Kenny takes Butters by the arm and pulls him away in the direction of the theater.

"G-gosh, Butters, n-nice g-g-going," Kenny bites as soon as they're out of ear shot, which makes Butters throw his hands off of him and give him an unexpectedly hard shove.

"Fuck you!" he shouts, "My stammer's n-not that bad."

It's a weird moment, one that finds them both silent and not quite looking at each other as they realize that they've both taken it a little too far.

"Sorry," Kenny says first, at which Butters shrugs but says nothing. Kenny wonders if it's because he's mad, or if it's because he can't speak without proving himself wrong. Either way, Kenny feels like a twat and apologizes again before he and Butters walk in silence to the theater. Shit, Kenny's not used to being around people who take this stuff to heart.

Butters doesn't wait for him before he goes to take his spot in the audience, where Kenny presumes he's going to audition people. Stan's on stage with Gary—Gary doesn't act, Kenny found out, but builds sets. Apparently he's quite the carpenter, which doesn't surprise Kenny, since he goes off to build houses for people in Mexico every spring.

Except now Kenny can't hear another person tell him that Gary's good with his hands without wanting to pour bleach on his brain.

He heaves a sigh and goes up to join them on stage, tapping Stan on the shoulder and feeling a tug of guilt in his gut when Stan looks at him with a resigned sort of discretion. He undoes his hood and looks between Stan and Gary.

"Sorry I'm a dick," he says. It seems like the right thing to say, and it makes Stan slip into an easy smile and clap him on the back.

"It's cool man," he grins. "There were more graceful ways you could've found out."

"And, like," Kenny shifts, looking to Gary now, "I know I'm not supposed to, like, say anything, so… don't worry, I guess."

Gary smiles at that, looking like he wasn't so worried about this, but is still grateful for the words. "Thanks, Kenny," he says and tucks a pencil behind his ear before going to talk to Wendy about something he's got sketched on his clipboard. Kenny and Stan look at each other for a moment, both shifting and unsure of what to say. Kenny has about a thousand things he could ask, that he actually kind of wants to ask, but he doesn't want to arouse any suspicion. Though he suspects that, of anyone, Stan's his safest bet to talk to about whatever it is that he's going through.

Kenny scratches his head underneath his hood and wets his lips, "So, is he, like, your boyfriend or whatever?"

"What!" Stan yelps before he catches himself and pulls Kenny backstage, out of earshot of everyone else in the theater. "Dude, what happened to discretion?"

"I didn't use names!" Kenny flies to his own defense, but folds his arms over his chest. "So, is he?"

Stan's cheeks tinge pink as he shoves his hands in his pockets and looks at his feet. Kenny almost laughs, because he looks not unlike he did when Kenny first asked him a similar question regarding Wendy when they were kids, and he gets the same answer.

"Not exactly," Stan says and scuffs his feet on the black floor, and elaborates a little further, "We fool around and stuff, but boyfriends is too risky with his family and everything. Like, hooking up is good for now, you know?"

Kenny nods. He needs another cigarette, but knows Butters will gore him with a piece of plywood from the shop if he leaves now. He doesn't know why he lets himself feel so threatened by Butters, honestly, but there it is.

He pulls one of his drawstrings into his mouth and starts chewing like crazy. The thought of Stan and Gary doing all sorts of stuff is permeating his mind, making it impossible to concentrate on anything else. He doesn't want to talk, doesn't even want to be around Stan anymore, because he knows exactly what the fuck is going to come out of his mouth if he dares open it.

"You guys touch each other's dicks?"

You know, stuff like that.

Kenny screws his eyes shut as Stan flies forward and socks him on the shoulder, "Dude, what the fuck?"

"Just a question!" Kenny insists, even though he knows he's turning red. Why would he care if Stan and Gary have had their cocks out in front of each other? Those are not heterosexual concerns, Kenneth.

"Not that it's any of your goddamned business," Stan says very plainly, looking a little bashful, but as determined as ever, "but yeah, we have."

Shit. Kenny's got all sorts of dirty thoughts cropping up now, despite the fact that it's probably the most polite sex ever. _'Would you mind too terribly if I came on your face?' 'I certainly wouldn't, dear chap, in fact I wish you would.'_

Kenny bets it's a disgusting display of civility and, gay or not, that's not okay.

"You like it?" Kenny asks then, unable to keep his goddamned mouth shut, apparently, and it makes Stan color even further and grab at the back of his neck.

"I kind of really do, dude," he says. "I mean, it's not like it is with girls, but I've only ever been with one of those, so… I don't know, it makes sense to me right now, you know? Not like I couldn't be with a girl again if I wanted, but, like… Gary's cool."

"Not cool enough to tell Kyle about, though," Kenny hears himself saying before he can stop himself. He has to veer this away from sex before he asks something stupid, like if sucking dick is as awesome as his subconscious wants him to think it is. It makes Stan get this guilty look on his face, and okay Kenny feels kind of bad about that, but, y'know…

Diversion successful.

"I haven't told anyone," Stan says softly. "Neither has Gary. You and Butters are the only ones who know, and that's because you've both walked in on us."

"Maybe you should rework your attempts at discretion," Kenny quirks an eyebrow, and Stan flips him off.

"It's not that I don't want to tell him or talk to him about it, it's just," Stan takes a breath. "What the fuck am I supposed to say, you know? He's got other shit on his plate and it's, like, _a fucking conversation_ we have to have. Like, I know him. It's going to be exhausting."

Kenny nods, because he can definitely see Kyle locking Stan in a room and bombarding him with questions until fucking Judgment Day. At least Kenny can take solace in the fact that Kyle's about three thousand times worse than he will ever be.

"Um, well," Kenny shifts now. "I'm cool… or whatever. As long as you're happy, y'know?"

This appears to be exactly the right thing to say, as Stan gives him a broad, relieved smile and pulls him into a hug. Kenny thinks he probably means these words, too—Stan's his friend, and he wants his friend to be happy. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with being gay or liking guys or whatever in general.

Kenny doesn't have to like it to be okay with it… or something like that. Stan's happiness means more to Kenny than the paralyzing fear he gets every time Butters smiles at him or something stupid.

Shit. Kenny was kind of way fucked up to him, wasn't he? He starts gnawing harder at the drawstring of his hood, praying for parka season to come early. Those are so much easier to hide in than just plain sweaters.

Kenny goes back out into the audience, taking a seat right beside Butters, who's jotting down notes on the inside of his script and jiggling his leg nervously. There's something deep down inside Kenny that wants to put his hand on Butters' knee to get him to stop, to stroke his thigh with his thumb until Butters relaxes into his touch and gives him an easy smile.

Kenny shakes himself out of those thoughts fast. He sinks into his seat and props his feet up on the chair in front of him, looking at Butters' loopy, cramped writing squeezed into the margins of his script.

"I'm an asshole," he says, which doesn't do much apart from getting Butters to shift uncomfortably. Kenny bites his lip a bit and continues, "A big, monster, gaping asshole, so don't listen to me, okay?"

Butters laughs a little at this and looks over at Kenny, the hurt behind his eyes slowly turning into a look of forgiveness. Butters is way too quick to forgive, Kenny's always thought, but it works out well for him at least. He grabs the script out of Butters' hands and looks over what they're working with.

"So, what are we doing?" he asks, and Butters snatches the papers back.

"I'm markin' up the m-m-m," he quiets immediately, color creeping up onto his face as he shrinks into himself. Kenny looks back over at the script, to where Butters has written all over a large block of text.

"Monologues?" Kenny offers, and Butters sighs and nods.

"Fuck," he mutters and starts fiddling with his fingers. "I c-can't—I can't t-turn it off n-now."

"Shit," Kenny feels his entire resolve soften and checks to make sure no one's right behind them or anything. "Shit, I didn't mean to upset you that bad. Fuck, I'm really sorry, dude."

Butters just laughs a little and bends over to put his face between his knees. He's taking deep breaths, in and out, and Kenny just sort of awkwardly pats him on the back, not letting his hand rest on him too long but still trying to be at least a little comforting.

"Just, uh," he looks around again, "Just breathe. Um, anything you want me to do?"

Butters shakes his head, just keeps breathing and grips a bit at his hair.

"It's cool, dude," Kenny just continues with his pats, "It's all good. You'll, uh… you'll be okay."

This continues for a few minutes before Butters sits back up and, even though a little red in the face and pink-eyed, he looks like he's got his bearings again. He looks at Kenny and says softly, "Thanks, Ken," and it makes Kenny's heart seize.

He's not used to being quite this useful, to be honest. He's hardly ever able to comfort Karen anymore, if only because she's a big girl and disillusioned now, and the only way he's ever able to make anyone else feel better involves sex.

This is strange, but not in a bad way.

"You don't have to stay," Butters says earnestly as he looks down at his script. "But, uh… we're havin' a sorta get together at Red's house tonight. Her parents are visiting her grandma in Fort Collins this weekend, so she's havin' a shindig of sorts… You should stop by."

Kenny blinks.

"Like a party?" he asks.

"Not a party," Butters shakes his head. "A kick back, I think she calls 'em? I dunno. Stan brings alcohol sometimes. We just kinda hang out… Gary got us to play charades while everyone else was drunk once. That was kinda fun."

In all honesty, it sounds mind-numbingly lame, but Kenny will actually take any excuse he can to get out of his house.

"Sounds good, dude," he says and stands. "You sure you don't need be for anything? I'll help out if you really need it."

"Aw, it's all right," Butters waves him off. "I was just gonna have you organize people's papers an' stuff. I can keep tabs on it, you go an' read about Roy Lichtenstein. I'll be fine here."

He offers Kenny a big smile and waves him off, telling him that they'll be at Red's around eight, and okay, it gets Kenny kind of anxious. He's been to parties before, but they were just that: parties. They were loud music and people grinding on each other and having sex in spare rooms and lots and lots of booze. This sounds like a group of people who genuinely enjoys being around each other. He's been around them for a little while now, and they all seem to be the types who don't give too many fucks about life, who seem to be on the planet to enjoy themselves.

Kenny used to be like that, free and easy and ready to laugh. He wants to think that he still is sometimes, even though he knows he isn't. Free and easy people don't spend hours at a time kicking themselves because they got hard thinking about getting fucked by dick.

He gets a ride home with Kyle, who's sort of hanging out near the theater, obviously waiting to see if Stan will come out, even if he'd never admit it. He looks a little bothered, but Kenny doesn't want to point it out, especially if he's employing the Kyle Broflovski "Let's be ridiculously unaware" method.

Kenny may be sexually repressed, but at least he's aware of it, and tries to beat his desires into submission.

So far he's been unsuccessful.

When Kyle drops him at home, Kenny is happy to see the truck there. He darts inside and up to Kevin's room, where the fucker is of course passed out cold on his bed. Kenny looks over to where the keys rest on a pile of dirty clothes and jacks them as quietly as possible.

If he's going to be around a bunch of happy people tonight, he's going to need some liquor. And for that he needs the car.

See, the part of having a fake ID in a small town that totally sucks is that everyone in town knows he's not fucking twenty-one. Shit, his brother isn't even twenty-one. What's even worse is that he and Kevin have been run out of just about every other town around this goddamned place, so now the nearest fucking place he can buy booze is goddamned fucking Buena Vista. Because Kevin systematically refuses to remember his fake birthday and ends up getting run out of every fucking store he goes into.

If it's going to take him upwards of two hours to get liquor and come back, he'd better just get it done.

He has to go to one of the older liquor stores, one that doesn't have the new ID scanners. The guy at this place always gives him a funky look, even though he can flawlessly recite his fake birthday, fake middle name, and is very adamant that it was indeed Bush the first who was in the White House at the moment of his birth. The guy is always wary of buying it, but he never calls Kenny out, so… score. He gets a big 32 pack of Bud and a handle of some mediocre vodka. He also makes a mental note to grab his pipe and his stash before he leaves too, just because that's the only thing Kenny can think to contribute to a party.

Even though this isn't really a party. Or something.

Kenny gets back to South Park with time to spare before he's supposed to be at Red's. This means that he locks himself in his room and smokes the rest of a joint he's had hiding in the bottom of his sock drawer. It's boring, but boring is what happens to you when you're just kind of unable to bring yourself to do anything. He reads through a little of _Frankenstein_, which he's only just started reading over the last few days, and can't bring himself to stay awake, despite how good Butters says it gets.

He sleeps until Kevin comes in and demands the keys back. It's almost nine, and Kenny's still a little faded, so he somehow negotiates his way into Kevin dropping him at the party before he goes and does his trashy strip joint crawl with his buddies.

He also thinks that Kevin might have swiped some of his beers, but he doesn't care. He's already bringing warm beer to a party—it's obvious he doesn't give two shits about what these people think of him.

Butters opens the door, like he's been waiting for Kenny all night, face all pink and smile all big as he pulls him inside.

"I told those assholes you'd come," he says, still grinning. Then his eyes drift down to the case of beers and handle Kenny's carrying and he starts laughing. "Cheese an' crackers, fella, this ain't a town social!"

Butters appears to already be tipsy, which Kenny sort of likes. He sounds like a hick on his best days, but there's something about liquor that makes his accent all thick and sugary, like syrup.

Kenny likes it a lot, actually.

Butters pulls him into the kitchen before Kenny's brain has a chance to piece together a response, still feeling groggy and sluggish from the weed and the nap, to where a group of the senior drama members are all congregated.

Someone has given them wine coolers.

No one is safe.

"Man, I thought you guys _drank_ at these things," Kenny scowls and puts his beer and vodka on the little island counter they're all standing around. Stan looks a little like Kenny's just placed before them a pot of gold and immediately moves to hug him. Gary looks a little more hesitant, but seems to get that Kenny's at least trying to be social.

"What the hell, McCormick?" Red asks, motioning to the alcohol with a wine cooler in hand. Kenny just shrugs.

"I'm attempting to buy your love," he supplies, and grins when Butters starts giggling beside him.

"And thank god for that," Bebe smacks the counter and goes to Red's fridge, ransacking and coming up with a bottle of cranberry juice. There's only about ten of them here, so Kenny may have overdone it just a bit, but Bebe starts mixing up cran-and-vodkas like they're going out of style, while Stan starts stowing the beers in the fridge.

And somehow things just kind of escalate from there.

Annie has a crush on Clyde, so after she has a little bit to drink, she calls and invites him over. Since Clyde doesn't go anywhere without Craig, Tweek, and Token, they're soon up four. A couple of kids heard that there was a party going on at Red's and just invited themselves over, bringing along more booze and some crazy-loud iPod speakers. Red's drunk enough not to care at this point, and welcomes people in as they come.

Kenny kind of hangs back in a corner with Gary (the only person, by now, who's still sober) and Stan, beer in hand and not nearly feeling it as hard as everyone else is. Then again, he's been drinking steadily since he was thirteen. He's still got a little head buzz from earlier, and it's mixing strangely with the alcohol.

Either that, or the fact that Red's living room has somehow turned into some psychotic dance orgy that looks very claustrophobic and hot and sweaty and somehow Kenny's just not feeling it. Again, he's pretty sure he's at some weird point of being cross-faded that's really fucking him up.

"You okay, man?" Gary asks, snapping Kenny out of his thoughts. He looks over at Gary, who's standing a little too close to Stan for it to be considered innocent, and nods.

"Yeah, I think I need to lie down though," he says and hands Stan the rest of his beer. "And, uh, maybe take a step this way or one of you go dance or something if you don't want people getting suspicious."

He leaves before they can reply, making his way to the stairs and stomping up a little too loudly because walking up the stairs is taking _forever_ and okay, yeah, maybe that weed was a little stronger than he thought.

He's never been in Red's room before, so he doesn't know quite how to navigate this, and of course he ends up in her parents' room. Whatever, he figures this is at least safe—no one wants to fuck on someone's mom and dad's bed.

Plus, there's already someone passed out on top of the pretty blue comforter—a very blonde someone with an impeccably sculpted ass. At this point, Kenny doesn't care that he's about to pass out face down on a bed with another guy. Butters appears to be out and, if the way he was downing those cran-and-vodkas earlier, he's probably gonna be out for a while.

He flops down on the bed and earns a disgruntled whine from Butters, who bounces a little in answer to Kenny's flop, and it makes Kenny laugh a little.

He's also got a dick on his cheek, drawn in what looks to be eyeliner and filled in with lipstick, which gets Kenny to laugh even harder.

"They branded me, I know," Butters mutters into the covers, giggling himself. That makes Kenny laugh even more, which gets Butters to laugh more and roll over onto his back, holding his sides as his cheeks pull up and—oh.

Written in big black letters on his other cheek is the word 'Faggot', underlined hastily and way too many times. Kenny wonders if Butters knows that it's there, or if he thinks someone just drew something else. Another dick, maybe.

"Fuck," Kenny mutters and reaches out to trace his fingers over it. It's cheap eyeliner, stuff that smears as Kenny's fingers run through it, so at least it'll come off easy, but "Goddamn. That's fucked up, dude."

"What?" Butters asks, looking over at him now. Kenny frowns and shakes his head before he rather ungracefully rolls off of the bed and stumbles into the master bathroom. He looks around for a washcloth or something, and by some miracle of god finds make up remover pads, whatever those are. They look like baby wipes. He comes back over to the bed and sits cross-legged beside Butters.

"Sit up, dude," he says. "Lemme get it."

"Why?" Butters pouts, even though he follows orders. "I think it's funny."

"There's some proportional errors," he says, swiping first the word off his cheek. There's a phantom left of it, angry red marks that are just barely there, but they'll go away. He then grabs Butters' chin and tilts his head so he can get at the other side. "As an _arteest_ of high regard, I can't have you walking around with disproportional dicks on your face."

Butters laughs, and just like that Kenny realizes how close they are, how intimate this is. His blood runs hot, his fingers burning where they touch Butters' chin. His lungs have stopped working, his breathing has fallen out of synch. Suddenly he can feel Butters' breath ghosting across his lips, smelling like sweet and liquor and like _him_.

And then Butters' mouth presses soft over his, lips sliding over Kenny's and molding to them like that's exactly where they were meant to be. Kenny's gut is on fire, his brain his slamming against the confines of his skull. He pulls away a little, feeling Butters' breath on him again, cooling at the warm saliva on his lips, and, throwing caution to the wind, ducks forward to do it again.

Before Kenny can even process it, he's laying flat on his back with Butters on top of him. Butters is hovering over him, forearms braced beside Kenny's head as he swipes his tongue along Kenny's lower lip. God help him, his jaw just sort of falls open, leaving Butters to lick cautiously into his mouth.

Kenny can't tell if it's just the booze or the weed talking, but he really likes this, and he's starting to wonder what made him so scared. Kisses are just kisses, and Butters is apparently really good at giving kisses.

Kenny brings his hands up to cup at Butters' angular jaw, marveling at how soft and smooth and fucking _warm_ his skin feels compared to his own. He can feel heat coming off of Butters like crazy, radiating off of him and making Kenny way too hot under his clothes. He rips away from Butters' mouth for a few moments so he can pull his sweater over his head, sighing with relief when the air hits his skin, and promptly dives back in.

Some part of him knows he shouldn't be doing this, that this is all wrong and not what he's supposed to want, but he's getting hard in his jeans as Butters' mouth moves from his lips to his jaw and down to his neck. He thinks Butters might be giving him a hickey, but he's not sure, and nor is he in the business of caring. Butters is hot against him and it's driving him wild.

Then it happens—he starts getting handsy. He reaches up to cup at Butters' ass through his jeans and practically groans right alongside Butters. It feels about as perfect as it looks, and it makes Kenny want to weep with joy just a little bit. Perfect asses should not be allowed to exist. They just should not.

He's beginning to think this isn't so different after all, and starts touching Butters just like he'd touch a girl. He smoothes his hands over his sides and down the backs of his legs. He avoids the chest, just because he knows he'll be disappointed, and instead goes right for the crotch. Except—

Kenny throws Butters off of him then, scooting across the bed and nearly falling off in the process, while Butters huffs and looks confused as all hell.

"Wha-what's wrong?" he asks, dazed. Kenny just shakes his head.

"You—" he begins, pointing vaguely in the direction of Butters' crotch. "Your dick," he finally comes out with, and Butters' eyebrows pinch into a little frown.

"Yeah?" he asks, still catching his breath. "What about it."

"You've got one," Kenny argues, and doesn't really feel like telling him how fucking huge it felt, just in case he's too drunk to process this properly and he's just feeling things.

Big things.

"Most guys do," Butters nods, looking at Kenny now like he's retarded or something. "I was about to get to yours if you'd'a let me."

"Oh, fuck," Kenny mutters and grabs his sweater scrambles off the bed. "Oh fuck, I touched your dick." He pulls the sweater back on and pulls the hood up, which makes Butters pout.

"Aw, I like your face," he says, and Kenny actually audibly yelps out a bit of nonsense at that. He can't hear that right now—won't hear it right now… not from Butters. He smacks into his door on the way out, earning a sharp intake of breath from Butters back on the bed. Kenny gets to thinking that he's not so good at this whole grace thing as he practically runs down the stairs and out the front door.

Butters. He was _kissing_ Butters. He'd groped his ass and… and grabbed his _dick_.

Fuck, that's not _okay_.

He wishes it was snowing. He likes the snow, and when things get tough he can always just hurl himself under a snowbank and lay there until his body has the fucking decency to die.

"Hey, Kenny!"

It's Butters, of course it's Butters. Kenny turns to see him skip all three steps on Red's porch and start running after him. He's way too athletic for Kenny, too spritely and able to be drunk while still functioning like a normal human being. He catches up with Kenny easily, mostly because Kenny's stopped walking. He thinks he might be in the middle of the street, but he's beyond caring right now.

"Kenny, what the hell?" Butters asks. Luckily no one followed him. "What's wrong?"

"Dude, fuck off," Kenny just scowls and starts walking again. "I'm going home."

"Well, lemme walk with you a little," Butters frowns a bit, coming to walk beside Kenny, but Kenny shoves him away. "Cut it out, jerk!" Butters shouts when Kenny does it again.

"Get out of the fucking street, idiot!" Kenny shouts back.

"I'm walkin' with you—why don't you!" Butters counters, and Kenny finds himself rolling his eyes and crossing, so he grabs Butters by his wrist and pulls him to the opposite side of the street. Red lives all the way across town from him, which means he has a fair bit more walking to do than normal. He likes walking alone, usually, but there's something about the way his swollen lips ache or the way his fingertips twitch when Butters falls into step with him, practically radiating heat, that makes him long for the company he tells himself he doesn't want.

"Look," Butters starts in, a little hazy, but looking serious for the most part. "Look, I—I thought… aw, heck, I don't know what I was thinkin'. I'm real sorry if I upset you. It's just…"

"Fuck off, dude," Kenny just rolls his eyes.

"No!" Butters exclaims, shoving Kenny a little again. "You're just … you're so _scared_ of somethin' that's just _not_ somethin' to be scared of."

"I'm not scared of shit, Butters!" Kenny snaps, shoving him back. He doesn't go as far as Kenny would've liked, but that's because Butters is surprisingly solid underneath his soft golden skin and buttery soft t-shirt and jeans. He stops walking then, grabbing Butters so he'll stop too, and insists, "I'm not into guys, okay? You can't be scared of something if you're not even fucking into it."

"You," Butters pouts now. "You kissed me too, y'know. Heck, you're the one who got all grabby first—"

"Dude, shut the fuck up!" Kenny shouts. There's too much going on up in his head right now, too many conflicting thoughts and desires. He wants to punch Butters almost as badly as he wants to pull him close again and kiss him senseless. Kenny's at a loss as to what to do, so he just stands still, fists balled up and insides all twisted and gnarly, waiting for his brain to tell his body what to do. Butters regards him warily, pouting a little and, Kenny notices as he looks down, standing there in nothing but his bare feet.

He ran after Kenny and down the street after him in bare feet. Like this is Woodstock or something.

Kenny feels himself deflate a little as he chuckles lightly to himself, shaking his head and pulling his hood tight over his head as he turns to keep walking. By now, he should know better to step off the sidewalk without looking—it's an endeavor that never, ever turns out well for him, no matter how deserted the street.

"Kenny, watch o—"

That's all Kenny hears before he takes a truck to the chest. He knows he's dead before he even hits the ground, which he's grateful for.

Good. He couldn't deal with this shit anymore right now anyway.

* * *

**Hi guys! Thank you to everyone who read and/or reviewed. You guys are awesome and you make my day. **

**Title of the chapter is from the song _Sodomy_ from the musical HAIR. **

**Alternate chapter title was _Kiss Me, I'm Shitfaced_ from the Dropkick Murphys song of the same name. Didn't convey the proper tone, but I liked it all the same. Enough to share, anyway. **

**Happy Wednesday!**


	4. An Itch to Scratch

**Chapter 4: An Itch to Scratch**

Kenny wakes in his bed, hoping it was all just a dream. Cross-faded making out with Butters, getting hit by a truck… any other normal human being would be able to brush it off as nothing but a hazy fantasy, but Kenny wakes with that token soreness in his bones and too-stretched feeling that comes with regenerating, and knows that it was all real.

Shit.

He rolls over and checks the date on his phone (which somehow inexplicably always ends up back beside his bed unscathed)—Saturday, October 29th.

Kenny shoots up in his bed, soreness be damned.

He's been gone for an entire fucking _month_? He _just_ died, though. He didn't go to heaven or hell or anything—just blinked and there he was, awake again. He's never been dead that long without actually having gone somewhere.

Not like he was exactly itching to come back. With deaths like these sometimes he stalls as long as possible, but when you're in nothing but blank space it's hard to find ways to keep himself busy. Then again, around this time of year it's way harder to stay dead—all that hocus pocus witches brew shit about this being the time of year when _the spirits of the dead walk the earth_ or something.

He screws his eyes shut—it's his birthday on Monday, on Halloween of all the fucking days. He's not entirely fond of the fact that he'll be seventeen, but considering he can't keep to the alternative…

Kenny rolls out of bed. If indeed it's Saturday, that means he has work in an hour. He pulls on some clean clothes, stretching the soreness out of his body as he goes downstairs to grab a little something to eat before he heads off.

Karen's the only one downstairs when he enters the kitchen. She's reading a magazine and eating Cap'n Crunch out of an old Tupperware. "Hey," she says, not looking up. Of course she doesn't. It doesn't matter how long he's been gone, as far as anyone's concerned he's just 'made himself scarce'.

"How goes it in the land of Oz?" he asks through a yawn.

"Fine," she shrugs. "Where've you been?"

"Around," Kenny shrugs back, grabbing a box of poptarts out of the cabinet and wrinkling his nose. Apparently, in his absence, Kevin has taken the opportunity to stock the fucking cabinet with nasty cherry poptarts. Who _does_ this shit?

"Whose bitchass…" he mutters, but takes the poptarts anyway, rolling his eyes and shoving one into his mouth. He'll save the other one for later.

"Off to work?" she asks.

"You know it," he replies through a mouthful. "Where is everyone?"

"I don't know," Karen shrugs again. "I just live here."

"Yeah, you and me both," Kenny gives a somewhat embittered laugh, and doesn't bother sticking around to give Karen an easy 'just kidding' or whatever. He just makes his way to the garage, grabs his bike, and heads to work.

It's definitely fall, but it's nice outside. He can feel the familiar nip of impending winter in the air and wonders suddenly just how hard Kevin's going to make him fight for the truck once it starts getting snowy.

He goes his normal route, which takes him past the Stotches' house: a fact he so conveniently forgets until he sees Butters outside, raking the front lawn without a shirt on and almost loses his balance in the most gracious manner.

Butters sees him, Kenny knows he does, but he keeps on peddling. He can't talk to Butters right now—blocking an entire night from your memory doesn't work if you're hanging out with the _guy_ you _made out with_. It's just not done.

When Kenny gets to work, he's met with a wary look from the gal on shift before him. She's older, missing a few teeth, and she looks like the last person you'd want to meet in a knife fight, but she's usually pretty cool to Kenny. He suspects it's probably because she worked as some fortune-telling gypsy in a past life or something and knows Kenny's _not of this world_ or something stupid.

"Hey there, Hazel," he says cautiously. She's already got her purse over her shoulder, like he's three hours late instead of three minutes. She just glares at him and pushes past him, not even offering any greeting or goodbye.

"Nice to see you too," he mutters before going to sit behind the counter. He's set up a little dvd player with the tiny TV. He knows Hazel's not too fond of it, but the boss hasn't told him to get rid of it, so fuck it.

He grabs a DVD off the shelf, _Shaun of the Dead_, and pops it in. He already anticipates a pretty slow day, he might as well keep himself busy.

Anything to keep the hard lines of Butters' torso out of his mind.

He goes about his business: emptying the drop box, scanning in movies, putting them back on the shelves… you know, things he actually gets paid to do. He keeps the movie on as background noise—it's one that he's practically got memorized anyway, and if anyone objects he can say he's keeping in the holiday spirit. Zombies and horror are Halloween-type things, right?

Kenny is looking over a newspaper by the time Butters comes in. He refuses to look up, even though Butters chirps out a greeting. He feels like seeing a movie, or at least going to the theater or something to keep out of his house, so he scans through the dismal little timetable of movies in the calendar section of the paper.

There's an old horror movie double feature playing on his birthday, _Dracula_ and _Frankenstein_ back to back.

"Hey, Kenny?"

Kenny purses his lips and tightens the grip on the back of his neck, still not wanting to look up. He doesn't need a fucking conversation right now, he doesn't need to see Butters' stupid, dorky face—he needs 1930s special effects and black and white film reels and, just… not this.

He sighs, long and heavy, "What, Butters?"

"Uh," Kenny hears Butters shift awkwardly, "I-it'd be nice if you looked at me, maybe?"

Kenny screws his eyes shut. It's the stammer that gets him; he knows he's powerless against it. He looks up, hopefully pokerfaced, and raises his eyebrows up as high as they'll go.

"What?" he asks, more curtly this time, and tries very hard not to flush when Butters bites his bottom lip.

"Jeez, I just wanna know if you're okay," Butters mumbles a little to himself, drawing patterns over the wooden counter with his fingertips. "You disappeared after, uh… after Red's party."

Kenny frowns curiously at this, but comes back with a, "Yeah, so?" People don't remember when he dies. They never do. Sometimes he gets to thinking that they might, like when Karen hugs him a little too long when he's just gotten back or something. Then he tries to talk about it and they just blow it off and… fuck, he's just learned not to get his hopes up about it.

"That was a whole month ago, Kenny," Butters supplies very frankly, all hushed like he knows he sounds like an insane person. "I was—heck, I was worried about you. Not 'cause of what we did or nothin', but… you're—I mean, you're my friend, right?"

Kenny shuts his eyes again and brings his fingers up to rub at his temples. Friends. Of course he's friends with Butters. Butters is friends with everyone.

"Yeah, dude, we're friends," he says. He has to do it. He has to nip this thing in the bud right here, before Butters gets any ideas. "But, dude? Like, that's all we are, okay? What happened that night isn't happening again."

Butters sighs and deflates a bit at that, leaning on the counter and hanging his head. He's been thinking about it too, then. Not that Kenny's had much time to think about it, mind, but there's something about the way the ghost of Butters' lips against his skin still haunts him. It's made even worse by the fact that he can see them, right here in front of him, all ready and waiting to be kissed again.

Fuck. Kenny wants to kiss him again.

Really, _really_ bad.

"Kenny, I gotta tell ya," Butters begins on a slight laugh. "I-I'm not a real good drunk. I mean, I get real friendly, an' I get kinda slutty… I think I made out with just about every person at that party at least once. I'm real sorry you got caught up in the line of fire and all, but, uh… it wasn't anythin' personal, all right? Reckon I'm just a teenage boy, y'know?"

He finishes on one of the most earnest and charming smiles Kenny has ever seen, and it makes Kenny's chest swell a little bit.

He doesn't get people who give him earnest or charming anything very often.

"Well," Kenny coughs and scratches at his nose. "Okay then."

"Um," Butters starts in again, color rising in his cheeks just a bit. "I did like it, though."

"You would," Kenny shoots back, looking back at the newspaper. "You're gay."

"All right," Butters says a little too definitively for Kenny's tastes and pulls the paper right out from under his nose. "Just 'cause I'm gay doesn't mean I'm ready to lick the face off any guy I see. Just like I don't see you desperate to suck the lips offa Debbie Berkshire."

Debbie Berkshire is an unfortunate-looking girl from North Park that gets way too much flack from the guys in school for having a little extra lip hair and braces. Kenny can't say he hasn't partaken in the razzing a time or two, even though he knows he shouldn't.

"Look, dude," Kenny sighs again. "I'm not into it, I already told you."

"Okay, if you're gonna play it that way," Butters says a little too high and a little too exhausted. "Let's not forget who was grabbing whose junk, Kenny. Now, I don't mind, 'cause you're a pretty nice-lookin' fella an' I like you enough, but you're makin' so much outta somethin' that's just not that big of a deal."

"Not that big of a deal?" Kenny parrots back, incensed entirely. "Dude, I grabbed your dick and I'm not gay. That's kind of weird."

"Oh, you're right, a straight guy grabbin' my dick—that would be weird," Butters nods gravely before lowering his voice. "Gotta tell ya, I don't think that's ever happened to me, though."

Kenny goes bright red when he says this, and just like that Butters looks like he knows he's gone too far. He rights himself and starts kneading his knuckles together.

"O-oh," he says softly. "I'm real sorry. That just came right on out, didn't it?"

Kenny feels a little like he's been punched in the gut. Yeah, he knew Butters kind of knew, but hearing it… god, he doesn't like hearing it. Putting words to it and having Butters right here makes it all way too real for him.

"Are you actually here to get movies, or are you just trying to piss me off?" he asks, scowl fixed on his face. Butters hangs his head once more and smacks his palm to his forehead.

"Yeah, Kenny," he nods. "I'm in here apologizin' to piss you off. Good eye."

"Can you go now?" Kenny just comes back. "Like, that'd be awesome if you could just, like… fuck off for a bit."

"Kenny," Butters groans now, throwing his hands up like the fed up little queen that he is, "I'm not trying to be a jackass."

"You just come by it naturally, then?" Kenny shoots back.

"Fuck, Kenny, liking guys isn't a big deal!" Butters yelps, fed up entirely. "I-I admit it's a little scary, but… gosh, it doesn't have to be."

The words hit Kenny hard, to the point where he doesn't think he'd be able to come back with anything if he tried. Butters senses this and keeps going.

"You're just so upset a-a-an' angry all the time," he swallows now, wetting his lips and looking determinedly at where Kenny's hands rest on the countertop. "An' I don't know if it's 'cause you feel alone, or if you think no one's ever gone through this or what, but it's obvious it's makin' you unhappy. An' when someone I care about is unhappy, I wanna help 'em. I-I wanna help you, Kenny."

"Dude, maybe I don't fucking want your help!" Kenny exclaims, fire licking at his insides now. "Did that ever fucking cross your mind that I don't want this to be a thing? Not everyone's as gung-ho about being a fag as you are, okay?"

There's a moment of silence, during which Butters gives Kenny a very firm look up and down before he folds his arms over his chest. "Fine," he says lightly, though a little more quietly determined than Kenny would like. "I just wanted to help. Honest."

"Yeah, well," Kenny shrugs. "Fuck your help. I don't need it. The only reason anything happened is because we were drunk, and you need to stop making a federal case out of it."

"All right," Butters shrugs back. "Will do. You're missin' out on a heck of a lot of fun, though, I gotta tell ya."

"Will you just pick a movie and get the fuck out of here, shithead?" Kenny groans and smacks his head on the counter. He cannot deal with this right now. He actually cannot.

"_As you wish_," Butters gives him a mocking bow. He bites his lip again when he sees Kenny hasn't looked up and sighs. "Look, I'll—I'll go. Sorry I came in in the first place. I'll, uh… I'll see you at school on Monday."

Kenny doesn't look up, he can't—not when Butters goes quoting good movies at him like they're the best of friends. He keeps his head down until he hears Butters by the door, fumbling with his keys. This proves to be a mistake, since Butters takes to dropping said keys on the floor and bending over to pick them up all slowly and provocatively. That little rat bastard.

Kenny wants it. He wants it more than anything he's ever wanted before, wants to grab Butters by the back of the shirt and drag him back behind the counter. He's not entirely sure of what he'd want to do once he got him there… naked sounds like a good thing. Naked would be fantastic.

He realizes Butters is looking at him now with an amused sort of smile, so he promptly draws the strings on his hood and slides back down behind the counter. Because he can't look at Butters right now.

"See ya later, Ken," comes Butters teasing little farewell. Kenny curls up in a ball on the floor, waiting until he hears the bell on the door and the distinct sound of a car starting and pulling out of the little parking lot. He's all red—he knows it—and suddenly he's overcome by the overwhelming sense memories of what it felt like to be close to Butters, to be pinned below his solid frame, to be kissed so tenderly and thoroughly… just like you'd imagine someone like Butters to kiss.

Shit, he's going to get hard if he's not careful.

He rights himself and sits back up on the stool, popping in a copy of something boring and erection-killing, right out of the documentary section. The rest of his day goes pretty much like this, watching World War II specials every time the thought of Butters' dick in his hand pops back up into his mind, or alphabetizing the foreign movies when he thinks of how good Butters' lips felt against his, how he needs to do it again just to be sure.

He can't, though. Kenny can't risk messing around with a guy, especially if he liked it as much as his brain is telling him he did. What if he stops liking girls altogether? What if he forgets how to sleep with them? What if all the skill he builds up sucking cock depletes his pussy-eating prowess? That can't happen, okay? That's one of the only things he's actually really fucking good at beyond everyone else.

Kenny sighs and puts his face in his hands. He's bombarded by all his dreams, all his sick, indulgent fantasies, all the porn he's ever lied about watching… he wants it. It's wrong, it's fucking sick and twisted and wrong, but that only makes him want it more.

God, why can't this shit just be simple?

Kenny can't help it—it plagues him for the rest of the afternoon and well into Sunday. He even agrees to go to church with his mom that morning, which he doesn't think he's ever done willingly. Butters is there with his parents too, sitting a few pews ahead of Kenny and his mom. He's in this light blue shirt that buttons down and looks all fancy and shit, with khakis and a belt and shoes that didn't come out of a clearance bin.

Kenny looks like shit in comparison, though he doesn't know why he's surprised. None of the nice things his dad or Kevin have fit him—Kenny's too lanky and reedy to look like anything other than a vaudeville clown in their clothes. He has one nice shirt, a polo that Kyle loaned him once that he never wanted back, and his nice pants are actually the only pair of jeans he owns that don't have holes in them.

He's a right fucking mess compared to Butters and he knows it.

He toys with the idea of going to confession after the service, but Butters catches him, ready to say 'hi', and Kenny promptly runs the other way.

His avoidance continues until Monday morning, when he can no longer lock himself in his room under the pretenses of not feeling well.

It's Karen who gets him out of bed. Actually, she comes in to wake him up with two piping hot toaster strudels on a plate and a glass of orange juice in her hands. Kenny looks at her, puzzled for a moment, before she sets the plate and glass down on his bed and says, "Happy birthday."

"No shit," Kenny grunts and sits up. They're the toaster strudels that have the squeezable icing, and the thick, volatile red jelly in the middle, and the nice flaky crusts. The orange juice is actually Tang, which is cool because Kenny actually likes Tang. His stomach gives an anticipatory growl, one that makes Kenny grin from ear to ear.

"Who sprung for the strudels?" Kenny asks, still not wanting to eat them quite yet.

"I did," Karen smiles and sits down beside him. "Um, Kevin might have found them last night, but I saved those two for you. I tried to write a one and a seven on them, but I fucked up, so… I dunno. Happy birthday."

Kenny smiles and envelops her in a hug. Karen's the only one who ever remembers his birthday right off the bat. His mom will remember probably sometime around noon, his dad probably his mom tells him, and he'll be lucky if Kevin remembers at all.

There are few better ways of starting off a morning than with Tang and toaster strudels. For a little while, Kenny lets himself relax in a little bubble of happiness, where everything is sugar and artificial fruit flavoring and simple. Karen also comes in later, after he's done getting dressed, and hands him a pair of false vampire teeth and a cape.

"The fuck is this?" he asks.

"Halloween costume," she smiles back. "You didn't think I'd let you go through your last Halloween in high school without a costume, did you?"

Halloween is pretty big at Park County High… a bunch of small town kids with nothing better to do? Some kids spend all year on their costumes. People like Cartman do, anyway. Last year he had an elaborate Doc Oc costume, complete with working mechanical arms. God only knows what he'll pull this year.

Kenny used to love Halloween costume contests. He's managed to put together a few pretty good ones in his day, but in recent years all the revelry in him has died. Dressing up and shit is _gay_, after all.

At least, that's what everyone tells him.

"The undead," he mutters as he ties the cloak around his neck. "How appropriate."

By the time he gets to school, he's already feeling like a jackass. His costume isn't much of anything, and somehow all these girls are getting away with being dressed in close to nothing on school property. It's maddening, especially when Bebe passes him at his locker, all done up in something that involves a gravity defying corset, and gives him a wave and a wink.

He's pretty sure that if he opens his mouth, his tongue will roll all the way out and hit the floor.

Hell, maybe this holiday is exactly what he needs.

Kenny heads out back behind the building to where Kyle and Cartman are smoking their morning cigarettes. Neither of them are in costumes, and are in fact hunched over a pile of notes that have way too many indecipherable math-type things on them for Kenny to care.

"Where're the costumes?" Kenny asks as he lights up.

"Dude, too busy," Kyle mutters. "We've got a calc test first period."

"Great," Kenny nods and leans against the wall behind him. "Well, now I feel like a giant, throbbing tool."

Cartman looks up from their book, about to come back with something, but just ends up laughing way too hard at Kenny's minimalistic getup.

"Look, Kahl," he wheezes. "The Count can help us study for our math test."

Kenny flips him off as Kyle looks up and starts laughing too.

"You guys are dicks," he says a little too loudly and goes to sit against the wall. It's better than the alternative, though, he supposes. He's already seen Stan today, dressed as Indiana Jones (five o'clock shadow included), while Wendy's donning a Wonder Woman outfit, and Butters is dressed up like some retarded version of Harry Potter, prancing around in some billowy cloak and wielding a wand like this is a totally normal thing.

At least his ass is well out of sight underneath his costume. It makes his daffy hound dog face a lot easier to dislike when it's not perched on top of that body. Kenny's only gotten a glimpse of it, and already it's up there at the tip-top of his spank bank. Which is awful. He shouldn't be jerking off to a guy raking leaves.

In fact, he should be off right now, burying his face in Bebe's cleavage. She'd let him—hell, she'd encourage it, even.

All he wants to do is get at Butters, though. To tear through all that ridiculous costume and run his tongue along the lines of his stomach and chest. He wants Butters all flushed and panting beneath him, finds himself wondering if he could incapacitate Butters with his mouth as easily and as thoroughly as he's done with girls.

"Is sucking dick gay?" he finds himself asking, and he's met with immediate silence. Kyle and Cartman are both looking at him like they've just seen a ghost, both too stunned for a brief moment to even come back with anything.

"Not if you're a girl," Cartman finally supplies. "Otherwise yeah, that's pretty fucking gay."

"Uh, you have photographic evidence that you've had a dick in your mouth, fatass," Kyle jumps in. "You're straight."

"Kyle, I was a small child, warped by the pressures of society," Cartman insists. "Kenny's almost a full-grown adult."

"The pressures of society," Kyle mutters and shakes his head. "Do you hear yourself talk? I swear to god, you're retarded. There isn't a human being on the fucking planet who hasn't ever had gay thoughts before."

"That wasn't the question, Kyle," Cartman shoots back. "The question was 'is it gay', and yes, it _is_ gay."

"Sucking dick doesn't _make_ someone gay," Kyle argues. "Gay-for-pay is a thing. It's not a fucking disease you get from having someone's dick in your mouth. Being gay is something totally different."

"Again, Kyle, not the question," Cartman points out. "A guy sucking another guy's dick is a homosexual act. One does not have to be a fudge-packing queer to do something gay, like suck another guy's dick."

"This is even less comforting than I thought it would be," Kenny mutters.

"Dude, it's 2012," Kyle says. "Shit's not black and white anymore. If you wanna suck dick, you should suck dick."

"I don't want to!" Kenny snaps. "I was just thinking out loud, fucking Jesus H. Christ. A guy can't just think out loud anymore?"

There's a pause before Cartman pipes up with, "Not about sucking dick, no."

"Look," Kyle says, sliding down so he's sitting beside Kenny now. "It's just like anything else. You don't really know that you'll like it until you try it."

"Kyle, what the fuck!" Cartman exclaims.

"Dude, will you shut the fuck up for a minute?" Kyle shouts back before turning to Kenny again, a look of concern on his face. "Kenny, if you're gay—"

"I'm not!" Kenny snaps.

"Okay," Kyle's hands fly up. "Okay, you're not. That's cool. But, like… experimenting or whatever totally doesn't count."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Kyle," Cartman sighs from beside him.

"Fuck you, that's perfectly legitimate!" Kyle snaps again. Luckily, the bell rings and Kenny doesn't have to listen to anymore of this. He heads to homeroom and keeps the fuck away from Butters and Stan, resolving instead to take out his science book and start reading.

He's fucked as far as schoolwork goes. He's a month behind, and even though his teachers are positive he couldn't have been pissing from school for a whole month, they still expect him to make up his work in a timely manner. Kenny can't exactly explain it, but he sort of wants to do it, just to prove that he can.

He doesn't think there's enough time in the world to make up that much work, but he wants to so fucking badly.

For the most part, he gets through the day relatively unscathed. His art history teacher looked a little concerned about him, told him that he could take as much time as he needed to finish his assignments (but that he _did_ need to finish them, mind), but for the most part he gets about what he expected, which is a big fat nothing.

He goes to find Kyle after fifth period. Advocate for 'experimenting' though he may be, Kyle has a car and takes him to get food. Food trumps uncomfortable conversations. He'll take Kyle's questions as long as he gets to stuff his face with greasy pizza.

Kyle is down by the main office, playing Angry Birds on his iPhone and looking particularly perturbed.

"What's up, dude?" Kenny asks.

Kyle shrugs, not looking up from his game, which means Kenny's supposed to go sign out before Kyle talks to him. He must not have done well on that math test if he's this pissy.

When Kenny comes back out, he and Kyle start walking in silence back to his car. It's not until they're actually buckling themselves in that Kenny rolls his eyes and says, "Do you wanna put on your big boy pants and talk about it?"

There's a moment of silence before Kyle comes out with, "Did you know about Stan and Gary?"

Kenny stops. Everything. He stops breathing, he stops thinking, he thinks he may have even gotten his heart to slow down to almost nothing. If he's talking to Kenny about it, he hasn't told Stan he knows yet.

"Um," Kenny clears his throat. "Do… do you?"

Stupid question.

"What the hell is going on?" Kyle yelps and starts out of the parking lot. "First you're talking about sucking dick—"

"I'm not doing that, by the way," Kenny interjects, because that is a fact and Kyle likes facts.

"—Then I see Stan and _Gary_ coming out of the fourth floor bathroom like they just had the best sex of their lives or something," Kyle finishes and scowls. "You knew about this and didn't even fucking tell me?"

"I'm under strict orders not to," Kenny says very carefully. "'cause if word gets around that Gary likes cock, his family might disown him or some shit. Apparently Mormons aren't on the up and up with their sons liking dick. I don't know."

Kyle frowns, but doesn't say anything else for the time being. They pick up a pizza and drive by Kenny's house. When it appears that no one's there, they park in the driveway and take the pizza into the kitchen, where they eat off of paper plates and drink Diet Rite out of Dixie cups. Kenny takes off his stupid vampire cape and chucks it into the pile of dirty laundry in the corner by the back door.

Kenny's not even one bite into his pizza before Kyle decides to go on with his musings.

"I mean," he begins again. "I'm his best friend. Why wouldn't you tell your best friend you're getting some? I don't care that it's with a guy, you know? I mean, sure I think Gary's kind of a smarmy douche, but hey. If Stan's getting laid, I'm all for it."

Kenny narrows his eyes, but doesn't say anything. He's got too much on his mind to dissect this, so he just offers a casual shrug and a grunt of vague agreement so he can eat in peace. He won't tell Kyle that he's being an over analytical twit, or that envy really brings out the green in his eyes. He'll leave it to Cartman to capitalize on Kyle's pain.

"Hey, wanna come watch horror movies with me at the theater tonight?" Kenny asks through a mouthful of pizza. "Old monster movies, it should be good."

"Nah," Kyle shakes his head. "I've gotta get a head start on that paper for my AP English class. I'll take you to the theater if you want, though."

Kenny nods and scuffs his shoes on the linoleum floor. He supposes this would be when it's nice to have friends who know when your birthday is. Yeah, Kenny kind of keeps it to himself, but someone knowing and going to the movies with him wouldn't be so bad.

"Yeah, dude," Kenny just nods. "Thanks."

They finish eating, after which Kyle kickstarts Kenny on his make-up work and they each take turns dicking around on Kenny's old PSP.

"By the way," Kyle says as he concentrates on the game. "Is there something you were trying to talk about earlier? Like, that you didn't want to talk about in front of Cartman? 'cause I don't blame you."

Kenny purses his lips, tapping the end of his pencil on the inside of his AP government book before he shakes his head.

"Just a dream I had," he supplies and goes back to his book.

"Oh, fuck," Kyle laughs. "Dude, if I had a fucking crisis every dream I had where I sucked another guy's dick, had my dick sucked by a guy, sucked my own dick… they'd've locked me away years ago."

"Seriously?" Kenny asks, perking up a little at this. "So you don't think it makes someone gay, then?"

"Dude," Kyle looks at him now. "Everyone's a _little_ gay. So you had a dream you sucked someone off. Big deal. Not like you're gonna go out and start playing pocket pool in the boys locker room or getting guys to suck you off in the bathroom between classes. What's a little homoeroticism between friends in a dream? Like, who cares?"

Kenny purses his lips and nods. He almost wants to ask Kyle what's got him so shifty and cross-legged now, but he refrains. It makes him feel a little better—better than anything else on the subject has, anyway—so he decides not to think on it anymore. It's a little relieving to know that it's a normal thing, actually. Like, his infatuation with Butters might stop now that he knows he's not some big eight-legged freak now.

When it comes time, Kyle drives Kenny to the theater. Kenny thanks him, both for the ride and for the advice and tells him he'll see him at school tomorrow. He goes to the ticket booth to pay for admission, and is actually kind of stoked since it's way cheaper than a regular ticket for a new movie. He has enough money for popcorn and M&Ms now, which makes him happier than just about anything. Old horror movies, popcorn, and candy. There is literally no other way he would rather spend his birthday.

He gets a seat toward the back of the theater. It's not impressively crowded—he recognizes a few of the older people in town who come in to rent movies, and a couple kids from the middle school who have nothing better to do (and who somehow think they're above free candy, the little pricks). He doesn't know why he's surprised when, two minutes until the start of _Dracula_, one Butters Stotch walks in all alone, tub of popcorn and box of candy in his hands, and sits down in the row right in front of Kenny.

Kenny shuts his eyes and sighs. Butters didn't see him. There's no way he could've seen him, otherwise he'd have sat right next to him. Kenny takes as sip out of his large root beer and sinks low in his seat. Butters will not ruin this for him, damn it. Kenny will sit here and watch these movies in peace, whether Butters likes it or not.

They're laughing at all the same things, though. Every bad piece of dialogue, every shoddy effect, every single thing that can be taken out of context to mean something else, they're both on the same page with everything. It's kind of unsettling. Kenny doesn't have too many people who share his sense of humor—Karen comes the closest, and she often gives him looks of deep concern when things that make him laugh take a turn for the strange.

Butters seems to like all the weird things that make Kenny laugh, though. So when they take a brief intermission between the two films, Kenny leans up in his seat, right beside Butters' face.

"I didn't think you were a horror film type," he says. Butters smiles a bit, still dressed in his costume from earlier in the day, and turns to look at Kenny.

"I'm not," he shakes his head. "But my folks said I should go, since I think they wanted the house to themselves tonight. Even gave me some extra money for popcorn and candy." He holds up big, brightly colored box and asks, "You want some Nerds?"

Kenny chuckles lightly and rests his forehead on the seat in front of him. He can't believe he's about to do this, but… He grabs what's left of his popcorn and candy and hops over the seat so he can sit beside Butters. He holds out his hand and tries to fight the warm feeling in his gut when Butters smiles and pours a little candy into his palm. Kenny, in turn, offers Butters some M&Ms, which he takes gladly, even though he's 'not a fan of chocolate so much'.

"Ugh, it's warm in here," Butters mumbles and sheds his cloak, revealing a perfect replica of what Kenny can remember of the Harry Potter uniform. He loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt a bit, using

"Okay, dude, I've been fucking wondering all day," Kenny starts in, "Doesn't Harry Potter wear red or some shit? Like, who are you supposed to be?"

Butters looks over at him and laughs a little, before saying very seriously, "I'm a Hufflepuff."

Kenny blinks.

"Isn't that, like… the super gay house or whatever?"

"No!" Butters jumps to defend. Kenny listens vaguely to Butters go on and on about how he got 'sorted' on some website over the summer that was apparently the 'legit' test instead of all the other ones he's been taking on the internet over the last eight years. Apparently Butters' aunt lives in LA, and there's a store there where you can get stupid shit like Harry Potter costumes, and it makes Kenny roll his eyes and sip loudly at his root beer.

"So you _are_ a Hufflepuff," Kenny says. "You know the whole point of Halloween is to dress up as something you're not, right?"

"That doesn't explain why you're all dressed up as," he pauses for a second, looking Kenny up and down, "I don't know, like a scruffy-lookin' Nerf herder."

Kenny tosses his head back and laughs way too loudly for the people around him.

"Star Wars?" he asks. "That's where we're going with this?"

"Yup," Butters nods, lips stretching across his teeth in a broad smile. Kenny feels that pull in his chest again, the one that makes him want to bury his face in Butters' neck, to kiss his lips and bite his jaw and suck on his neck until he gets him to blush and beg for more. Butters looks over at him just as the lights dim again and he's never been more grateful. He's got that hazy look in his eye, he knows he does.

They get a few minutes into Frankenstein before Kenny starts realizing just how unlike the book it is. He's not sure if he's upset or not, but he does feel the need to lean over to Butters and say so. They're a little too close together already, but when Butters turns to respond, they're practically… they're almost—_oh god_.

"Y'know," Butters says softly, breath ghosting over Kenny's lips. "If you wanna kiss me, you can. You don't have to go through the song an' dance of pretendin' you read a book."

Kenny can't respond further than, "I did read it," on the tail end of what he knows is a pout. It makes Butters grin.

"Maybe," he continues then, still whispering. "Maybe you don't wanna kiss me," he says, looking around to make sure they're the only ones in earshot, before licking his lips and shifting a little closer. "Maybe you want me to kiss you. So you don't have to worry about wanting to kiss me."

Kenny feels a tight noise escape his throat as his stomach goes sour. He could tell Butters to knock it off and he knows that'd be the end of it, probably forever. If Kenny told him to fuck off sober, Butters would leave it. He's about to do so, and in fact this is what he is actively telling his brain to do.

So he has absolutely no idea why he finds himself nodding. It makes Butters grin, though, and cup Kenny's jaw in his hands. He leans forward and pushes their lips together softly, and just like that Kenny feels a little jolt of electricity fly through him as all the things he was trying to forget about Red's party hit him hard.

Even sober, he likes the way Butters' lips fit against his, how kind they feel, how sure they are. He knows he's in a movie theater, that there are definitely people who could easily turn around and see what's going on, and maybe that's what gets him to pull away initially, looking at Butters all wide-eyed and… and _fuck_.

Fuck, he _is_ scared.

What if he gets caught and it gets back to his parents? Suddenly he becomes their faggot son, takes on a whole new personhood as far as they're concerned. People start talking, the word 'gay' starts getting thrown around, and Kenny's not. He's not gay. Just because he wants to kiss another guy, that doesn't make him gay.

That's what Kyle said, right?

He coughs a little and turns back toward the screen, all blushing like a fucking virgin or something, and sinks low in his seat. There are so many things wrong with what's going through his head, but he can't be bothered to care right now. All those things he shouldn't be doing? Butters makes him feel at least a little okay about doing them…

Okay enough not to want to shoot himself, at least.

"Kenny?" Butters whispers, and Kenny just shakes his head.

"Not here, dude," he mutters. He hears Butters snicker just a little bit and grabs the cloak from the back of Butters' chair, draping it over his crotch and just praying for an erection-killer. Butters just sinks low beside him and gives him a smile.

"You got wood?" he whispers softly. "From just a little kiss?"

Kenny scowls and shifts, but says nothing. Butters laughs a little more at this, "Sheesh, no wonder you're so pent up. Just kissin' a boy does that to you—"

"Dude, shut up!" Kenny has a hard time concealing his own laugh. Butters' grin doesn't go away, even when he leans over and presses a light kiss to Kenny's jaw.

"What are you doing?" Kenny asks.

"It's like those old Tootsie Pop commercials," Butters whispers, kissing Kenny's cheek and the corner of his mouth before going to breathe in his ear, "How many kisses does it take to get Kenny to spunk his shorts."

Kenny feels every muscle in his body constrict at that, and comes to the horrifying realization that the answer is somewhere along the lines of "Not enough." He takes Butters' cloak and shoves it back into his lap before he leaves the theater, abandoning the rest of his popcorn and M&Ms entirely. He can't be in that theater anymore. If he even so much as smells Butters' soap on his skin, he's going to come in his pants like he's fucking thirteen years old.

He takes out a cigarette and goes to stand in the back alley, far from anyone who can harp on him for smoking underage. He'll probably go back in, he just… he needs a break. A mental break. A little time to process the fact that he wants to do things with Butters, and Butters is apparently all for this.

He'll go back in when this little black hole in the pit of his stomach stops swallowing up everything in sight, when it stops telling Kenny what a horrible human he is for wanting something so… so—

"Kenny, are you all right?"

Kenny looks over to see Butters standing a little ways away, cloak draped over his shoulders as he chews at his lip and plays with his fingers. Kenny sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. His hood is down around his neck, and something about the way Butters looks up at him makes him want to pull it over his head and draw it shut.

"I'm, uh," Kenny flicks a bit of ash off the end of his cigarette, "I'm fine, dude."

"I can get a little," Butters pauses to laugh a little and grab at the back of his neck. "Gosh, I guess I can get a little forward, huh?"

"Hey," Kenny shrugs, curling into himself a little. "You know what you want. That's… that's good."

He hates the way Butters looks at him so firmly, like he's looking right through Kenny in a way that no one else can. At least, in a way no one else has bothered to try. He steps closer to Kenny and timidly reaches out to brush his thumb over Kenny's cheek bone.

"You had an eyelash," Butters supplies quickly when Kenny gives him a look. "Kenny, I know you don't believe me, but wantin' whatever the heck it is that you want isn't a bad thing. Y'know, I want a phone that was made in this century," he pulls out his archaic dinosaur of a cell phone, "Doesn't make me a bad person for wanting it. It won't make me a bad person if I get it."

Kenny doesn't bother telling Butters that being a 'bad' person isn't what concerns him. Butters is trying to be nice, so Kenny just smiles and thanks him, and most definitely doesn't sigh when Butters grabs at his free hand and starts scanning his eyes over his palm.

"What're you doing?" he frowns when Butters starts tracing over the lines with his fingertips.

"My aunt reads people's palms for money at parties an' stuff," Butters says. "You know you got a broken up life line on this hand?"

"I don't know what that means," Kenny shrugs, and Butters gives him a goofy, lopsided grin as he shrugs back.

"Me neither," he confesses, and upon seeing Kenny smile back leans up and kisses him again. Kenny whimpers a bit, caught off guard, and drops his cigarette onto the gravel under their feet.

"Y'know smoking's bad for you?" Butters mumbles against Kenny's lips. "Makes you taste like an ash tray."

"Ugh, spare me," Kenny rolls his eyes and rubs his hands over his face. Butters doesn't go back to his lips, but instead takes to kissing his neck and face instead. It feels good—way too good for Kenny to tell him to stop. He doesn't want him to stop, anyway. He likes how Butters' hands are all big and warm where they rest on his sides, likes how his fingers play with the bottom of his shirt or occasionally dip into his back pockets.

He'll hate himself later. Necking with Butters behind the movie theater feels way too good to turn back on it now.

Kenny almost whimpers when Butters pulls away, figuring it's over and now he has to drive home with a hard on and a neck that smells like Butters' spit. He's pretty sure he's going to have the best jerk-off of his life, though, so—

_Holy shit._

There's a set of very deft fingers working at the button and zipper of his jeans. Kenny opens his eyes and looks Butters dead in the eye as he dips his hands into Kenny's underwear and closes his erection in a loose fist. Kenny tosses his head back against the wall and lets out an embarrassingly loud whine that makes Butters giggle a little bit and shush him.

This is all going at about a million miles an hour, and Kenny can't say he's upset about it. Butters' hand feels amazing on him—it's the only thing his brain will actually allow him to process. Butters then gives him a little kiss on the lips before… _oh god_, before he sinks down to his knees and, all too easily, closes his mouth around Kenny's erection and starts to suck.

Kenny's logic and reasoning sort of just short out from there. Butters' mouth is hot and wet around him. He knows just how to move his tongue and bob his head to get Kenny to groan and whine (though he works hard to keep it quiet when he recalls just where they are). Fuck, Butters is good at giving head, better than any of the girls who've ever done it for him. Kenny fists his hands in Butters' fine blonde hair and tugs, thrusting up possibly a little too eagerly when Butters hums around him. Butters pulls off and coughs a little, looking up at Kenny with a pout on his swollen, red lips and giving a little indignant, "Hey."

Kenny doesn't have time to apologize before Butters' mouth is on him again. This time, though, Butters pins his hips to the wall with his hands and goes at it a little quicker.

"Fuck," Kenny mutters and tugs Butters' hair again, trying to issue a warning, but Butters just whines again and that does Kenny in. He comes hard into Butters' mouth, a desperate, throaty noise escaping him as Butters swallows him down.

He's left a mass of shaky flesh as Butters tucks him back into his jeans and stands. His lips are all big and puffy, and his big blue eyes are looking a little glazed over. When he leans up to kiss Kenny on the lips again, Kenny indulges him for a few seconds before he realizes what that weird taste is on Butters' tongue and pulls away.

Butters laughs. Of course he does.

"Okay there, hoss?" he asks.

Kenny nods, even though he's not entirely sure that that's the right answer. He thinks he's okay, but then again, he never thought 'okay' would include just having had a guy's mouth on his dick. Still, he opens his eyes, still breathing a little heavily, and gives Butters a look.

"You're good at that," he says, and Butters flushes a bit. "Like, really fucking good."

"Ah, well," Butters looks down at his shoes. "I reckon I've had a bit of practice."

"No fucking kidding," Kenny laughs a little and thunks his head against the wall again. He can see Butters' erection straining at his slacks, and he knows that the polite thing would be to return the favor in some way. From the looks of it, he's as big as Kenny remembers though, and Kenny's not mentally prepared to deal with cock he doesn't think.

He does kind of want to touch it, though, so he brings his finger up to the outline in his pants and runs his fingers softly over it. Butters whines and grabs onto Kenny's arm.

"Oh God," he mutters softly. "Ke-Kenny, y'know, you don't have to, uh… o-oh, jeez."

Butters leans his forehead against Kenny's shoulder as Kenny teases Butters through his pants. It's weird, feeling another guy's cock in his hand, even if it's separated by layers of clothes. He likes what he's doing to Butters, though, how his breath is getting all short and his eyelids are getting all fluttery.

"Kenny," Butters moans and grabs Kenny's wrist. "Kenny, i-if you're not comfortable touchin' me, that's all right. Just… please don't make me come in my shorts," he whines desperately. "I gotta wear these pants for a presentation tomorrow."

"Oh," Kenny says and retracts his hand. "Uh, sorry, dude."

Butters just gives him a breathy little smile and draws his cloak shut over his front.

"It's all right," he reassures him, and leans against the wall beside Kenny. "I'm probably gonna hang out here for a second. Reckon you should probably head home, though. It's gettin' late."

"Ha," Kenny runs his fingers through his hair. "I'd rather shack up in this alley than go back there, dude."

"Ah," Butters nods. "I know the feelin'. Parents suck."

Kenny snorts, because anyone who ever tries to empathize with him doesn't really fully understand the scope of what he's talking about, but he figures he should be at least a little nice to the guy who sucked his dick.

"No shit," he nods vaguely and looks over at Butters again. He's got a happy smile on his face, he knows he does—it's that smile he always gets when someone sucks him off. He can't help it, really. Sex puts him in a good mood. He doesn't want to ruin it by talking about his dickhead parents.

"You good, dude?" he asks, and Butters nods. "You drive here, or…?"

"Oh, I drove," Butters says and pushes himself away from the wall. "You wanna ride home?"

Kenny shakes his head, still fidgeting against the wall. He walks with Butters to his car and gives him a little wave as he drives off. He's feeling a little lighter in his chest than he was earlier. He just got a blowjob. From a guy.

And the world didn't end.

He flips his hood up over his head and gives a languid stretch toward the sky. He's actually pretty fucking chuffed right now, though he does remind himself that he wasn't the one doing any of the touching. Still, though, it's good. He practically skips on his way home, offering everyone he passes a great big smile. This frightens some of the moms who are still out with their kids, of course, but Kenny doesn't care.

He feels good. For the first time in a long time, he feels _good_. He's even foolish enough to come back home, all grins and warm regards to the pathetic lumps of human on his couch, the ones who didn't just get the best head of their lives.

"Good evening, my fellow Americans," he salutes and walks past his dad and Kevin, watching ESPN. He gets about two steps away from the stairs before Kevin gives him a whoop.

"Goddamn, dude, who the fuck you just stick your dick in?"

Kenny's face falls as his dad and Kevin look over at him expectantly. He's not a fan of talking about this shit with these two—even if he'd just gotten sucked off by a girl, he wouldn't want to divulge. Kevin and his dad can get kind of gross about this stuff. They don't have any regard for human beings on their best days, and if another person is willing to fuck them, they're obviously worthy of utterly inappropriate talk. Like, Kenny can get graphic about the actual act when he's talking to Kyle or something, but… he loves women. And he doesn't understand treating someone you're sleeping with like shit.

"I'm kinda tired," Kenny tries to insist. "I'm probably just gonna go to bed."

"Aw, shit," Stuart shakes his head. "You porked the fat one with the hairy lip, didn't you?"

"Nah, he wouldn't do that," Kevin snorts and turns back to the TV. "At some point it's just like fuckin' a big fat guy with no dick. Even he's not that fuckin' desperate."

Kenny's eyebrows fly into his hairline and he wishes he could plug his ears without being made to feel like he's five. He's actually come to hate the sound of his dad and Kevin laughing, if only because he knows that it never comes from a good place.

"Either way," Stuart continues, still chuckling. "Wipe that goddamned smile off your face. No one needs you prancing around here like the fairy queen of the fucking queers. Get upstairs before I come over there and whoop it outta you, boy."

This twists Kenny's heart up enough to get his smile to drop. He grabs at the back of his neck and trudges up the stairs. He's never gone from so happy to so utterly disgusted by himself so quickly. He shuts himself in his room and locks the door before he collapses on the bed. He can smell Butters on his neck still. It makes his insides stir up all warm and pleasant.

Only then he remembers that his dad basically just threatened to hit him for _smiling_ like a fag. God save everyone if Stuart found out that he got his dick sucked like a fag too.

Kenny buries his face in his hands and rolls over onto his side. If it hadn't been so fucking _good_, Kenny could just write it off and that would be that. But it was good. And more than that, Kenny got to feel Butters' dick again, and it wasn't… unpleasant. He wants more than anything to do it again, to get to a point where wants to take Butters' cock out of his pants and play with it until he can make him come.

That shouldn't make him want to crawl under his covers and cry as much as it does.

* * *

**Hey guys! Thanks for reading and/or reviewing. You are all awesome-socks and you make my life amazing. **

**Title comes from _Touch-A, Touch-A, Touch Me_ from _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_**

**__I felt it was appropriate. **


	5. Rose Tints My World

**Chapter 5: Rose Tints My World (Keeps Me Safe From My Trouble and Pain)**

It's no secret: Butters Stotch is a slut.

Well, maybe it's a secret to some people, like his folks. He doesn't think they could handle knowing that he likes boys, much less that he's done stuff like fucked them in the bathrooms at school, or sucked off three of them in one night.

Gosh, that had been a long night... at some party Bebe took him to over the summer. He'd danced with a handful of guys that night, and out of the three he'd gone down on in the upstairs bathroom, only one, the last one, had gone to reciprocate. With all the excitement and the stimulation (combined with the amount of mystery punch he'd pumped in himself earlier that night), he'd ended up barfing right on the guy's head—coating the poor guy's head in booze, bile, and spooge.

Needless to say, he has not touched tequila since.

He can't help it, though. He thinks he just has a predisposition for it—he likes making people happy, and he _really_ likes sucking dick. Everyone wins.

And he really can't get over just how happy Kenny looks after he does it. He likes when Kenny smiles, and it's nice not to have him be a jerk for a few minutes, since he's not even a jerk to begin with. Not really.

A little scared, but not a jerk.

Butters yawns as he shuffles into the bathroom. He catches his reflection in the mirror and winces; he didn't sleep well last night. He's got bags under his eyes and pillow marks on his face, and there's a general grogginess about him that he isn't too fond of. He opens up the medicine cabinet to wash his face and brush his teeth, moving seamlessly through the routine. Butters isn't one of those kids who lazes around on the weekends. Friday nights still find him going to bed at a reasonable hour and waking up around eight on Saturdays to start in on his chores.

Sometimes he wishes he had a brother or sister, just so he wouldn't have to do so much around the house, but he usually likes it—between this and school work, he doesn't have too much time to goof off or waste time, and that's all for the best.

He can get kind of… _strange_ if he's left to think for too long.

Butters pulls on his Saturday clothes, his ratty old jeans and his gym shirt from a few years ago, and heads downstairs. His parents are already at the table, each eating breakfast and engrossed in their own separate sections of the newspaper. Butters is left to make his own food, like he always is, and settles on some eggs on toast. He prepares his food and sits down at the table silently. He's been told several times not to interrupt his folks while they're busy, and reading the paper is very busy business for them.

Plus, he's already grounded for breaking curfew on Halloween a couple weeks ago. After sucking off Kenny behind the theater he'd had to pull off to a deserted street and, uh… _relieve_ himself, so to speak. He'd walked in his front door four minutes after his curfew, which was worthy of four weeks of punishment. "One week for every minute," his dad had said.

Seemed logical, Butters couldn't help but think as he'd trudged up the stairs. Even now he knows he should've waited until he got home to do what he needed to do.

He couldn't help it, though. The way Kenny just melted under his touch, all those noises he made, all the brief touches and the glazed over satisfied smiles… it was all Butters could do not to reach into his pants mid-blowjob and finish himself off right along with him.

Plus, Kenny McCormick lives up to his reputation—he has a very nicely shaped penis. Butters still gets a big dopey smile on his face when thinks about it, even though he's seen it a couple times now. Truth be told, Butters would get down on his knees and worship that cock all-day-every-day if he could.

"Butters," his mom inserts, bringing him out of his thoughts with a blush. "Sweetheart, it's impolite to grin at the table if you're not even going to let us in on the joke."

"Oh, uh," Butters coughs a little, "S-sorry, mom."

Joke. That boy's dick is no joke, Butters will tell you.

He fights a laugh this time and instead shovels as much food as he can into his mouth before they can get suspicious. His dad pulls out a list of chores from his pocket, and puts it on the table for him.

"Try to bag those leaves a little better than you did on that math test, hmm?" his dad says without looking up from his paper. His mom laughs at that, like it's the most delightful thing she's heard in years, and Butters feels his face flush. It's just pre-calc, so it's nothing too crazy… He'd gotten an A-minus, only because he'd made a minor, yet continuous error at the end of each of his problems.

It was a stupid mistake, though. He supposes he has the taunts coming.

"I will," he says and gives a reassuring smile. He starts on the chores inside the house first, the sweeping and dusting and the vacuuming and all that stuff that his mom used to do but decided to pawn off on him when she found out she could. She and his dad just stick Butters with housework and go off on what they call "Date Days", when they seek to _rekindle the fire_, as they like to say.

"Remember, Butters," his dad says as they're heading out the door, and Butters is washing the window beside it. "No TV, no computer and no phone calls."

"A-about that," he interjects. "I-I was gonna work on my college applications today, a-an' for that I'd n-need a computer—"

"Oh, no you don't," his mother wags a knowing finger at him. "Butters, you still have another two whole weeks left of your punishment. If you need to use the computer, you'll do it at the library like everyone else."

The South Park Library has three archaic computers, all of which just recently got an upgrade from dial-up internet. They crash about every couple of hours, and if Butters lost his application to NYU he would actually cry.

"And if this is going to be another speech therapy ordeal, then I'm not so sure we're ready to put money into another sinkhole," his dad shakes his head. "Finish your chores, and when you're done with that go upstairs and finish your homework. When we get home tonight, we'll talk about college."

They leave, and Butters feels an icky sort of thing in his insides, a big ball of tar and gunk and yuck. He hates that he went to speech classes for so long only to come out of it with a recurring stammer. He doesn't get it—it's way better at school, but every time he tries to tell his parents that, he trips over his words and ends up proving exactly the opposite.

It figures. He's not exactly in the business of doing things right.

Except giving head, that is. That's the only thing that, without a doubt, he is any good at. Everyone tells him so, so it must be true, right?

Kenny thinks he's good at it, anyway.

He takes the trash to the bins out front, noticing with a smile that among the kids playing outside and enjoying the autumn day, Kenny is riding his bike. He's riding it around in circles in the middle of the street, then in figure eights, and popping wheelies when he realizes he's gotten the attention of a few kids from down the street.

Butters smiles and folds his arms; Kenny has been riding around these parts a lot more lately, and even if he doesn't even actually come to knock on Butters' door, Butters knows it's because of him. He walks over to join the crowd, nothing if not amused at the fact that Kenny is totally into the fact that a bunch of eight year olds think he's cool.

He's right in the middle of a gearing up to go off a jump that the Johnson kid set up for him when he spots Butters, and loses his focus mid-air. He lands with the least amount of grace Butters has ever seen, and when he doesn't get up right away he immediately goes to help him up.

"Nice one," Butters chides good-naturedly as he hauls Kenny easily to his feet. "Y'okay?"

"Fine," Kenny mutters and tears himself out of Butters' hold. Butters feels a little stab in his gut at that, but it's understandable. He did just fall off his bike in front of a bunch of kids—that had to be embarrassing.

He's limping a bit when he goes to grab his bike, though. Some of the kids are laughing, so Butters tells them to get lost before he grabs the bike from Kenny and gives him a wordless, friendly smile. He tosses his head toward his house and Kenny nods, pride probably hurt more than anything.

"Are you all right if I leave the bike out here?" Butters asks as they get to his front door.

"Are any of your little twat neighbors gonna steal it?" Kenny grunts and rubs at his elbow.

"Nah, they mostly steer clear of me," Butters shakes his head and props the bike up behind the roses, just to be safe. "I got an ice pack if you need it. Heck, even got a couple if you're banged up that bad."

Kenny looks like he's about to refuse, but then he accidentally knocks his knee against one of the chairs at the dining table and hisses.

"Okay," is all he says as he sits down, and Butters fights a smile. He grabs an ice pack out of the freezer and wraps it in a towel before handing it to Kenny. He puts it on his knee and winces.

"You get banged up anywhere else?" Butters asks as he grabs some cleaning supplies from under the sink. He may as well be productive while Kenny's sitting there, healing up. Something tells him that Kenny won't mind.

"I think I landed on my handlebars," Kenny coughs a little, holding his stomach and grimacing.

"Shoot," Butters frowns, "You need to go to the hospital, or somethin'?"

"No," Kenny shakes his head. "No, I'm fine, dude."

He opens his eyes and gives Butters one of those looks—the one that makes Butters grin like a lunatic when no one's watching him. Kenny so often looks at Butters like he's something to be oogled at, and Butters does not understand why. He's got an awful farmer's tan and buck teeth and these big eyes that make him look like a bushbaby instead of a person, not to mention the way his hair is getting a little too long and messy-looking or how his arms are still kind of freckly from the summer.

"Um, do you want somethin' to eat or drink?" Butters asks, grabbing at the back of his neck, that is undoubtedly all red from being outside so much this week.

Kenny just shakes his head and moves the ice pack to his elbow.

"Are you bleedin' anywhere?" Butters asks now.

"I'm fine, dude!" Kenny snaps, and Butters draws back a little.

Crap.

He supposes he can get a little pushy when it comes to making sure people are okay. He figures it's probably pretty annoying. He shifts and leans against the counter, fiddling with his fingers in the way that makes his mom smack his hands down and his dad call him names. It is a pretty bad habit, but they're not here right now and he can't help it.

"Sorry," Kenny says then, out of nowhere, and Butters shifts again. He doesn't know why Kenny apologizes to him so much—Butters knows he doesn't mean anything by it.

"It's all right," he just shakes his head and grabs the kitchen cleaner and a sponge. "Say, I gotta do some chores. You're welcome to stay an' all… I'd kinda like the company."

Kenny looks like he's considering this for a moment, and Butters is entirely ready for him to say 'no'. Instead, Kenny just stands and hands the ice pack back to Butters, rubbing at his elbow still as he looks over what Butters is doing. Or, rather, needs to do.

"You have chores?" he asks, and Butters finds himself nodding.

"Every Saturday," he says. "It's my responsibility to keep this house from turnin' into a pigsty."

"_Your_ _responsibility_?" Kenny's eyebrows pinch together. "Like, your parents don't help or anything?"

"Well, if I'm gonna live here, I gotta do my part, right?" Butters shrugs. "Plus, I kinda like it. Reckon it gives me somethin' to do."

"You don't, like, watch TV or anything?" Kenny asks now, gingerly pulling himself up onto the counter.

"Ah," Butters grabs the back of his neck and shifts. "Not when I'm grounded."

"Oh, shit," Kenny says and puts up his fist, "Rebel yell, dude. Right on."

Butters smiles a little at that and goes to stand in front of him, drawing patterns on Kenny's knees with his fingers. The one knee he banged up is significantly hotter than the other, and it makes Butters frown a little.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks, and Kenny kind of gives him a breathless little nod.

Butters has had Kenny's cock in his mouth four times already. He's getting better about not freaking out and running away when Butters touches him, but a boy touching him is still enough to get him all squirmy and anticipating—it's real cute. Kind of like Stan was when he and Butters goofed off a couple of times last year. Butters has always been really good with squirmy boys—ask Tweek. He grins and leans up to kiss Kenny then, taking his hand off of Kenny's knee and going to thread his fingers through his hair.

He pulls back and gets a warm feeling at that dazed look in Kenny's eyes, that one that says he still can't believe that the world hasn't collapsed in on itself. Butters remembers that feeling: when you've only just admitted to yourself that you _want_ this _thing_, something people think you shouldn't want or have, and you get it and the world not only doesn't end, but feels _ a thousand times better_… Butters remembers what that's like, and remembers that it doesn't go away for a while.

Heck, it still happens to him from time to time.

"You want me to kiss and make it better?" Butters mutters through a smile, lips moving against Kenny's as he strokes a thumb over his cheek. Kenny nods wordlessly, and Butters grabs his wrist. He leads him upstairs, because as big a jerks as his parents are, he doesn't think he could put his mouth on someone's privates in their kitchen.

He does have a _little _shame, slut or no.

When they get to his bedroom, Butters doesn't even bother shutting the door before he tackles Kenny back onto the bed and starts kissing him all over. He's not exactly looking his best, but Kenny doesn't seem to mind.

He's also not as hesitant about touching Butters when they kiss now, which is a good thing.

You can't be afraid of something that makes you feel good—that's just nonsense.

Butters settles on top of him and presses their bodies together, bringing Kenny into a slow, teasing kiss. He likes teasing Kenny. Butters likes getting him to admit he wants him, or at least his mouth. He rolls his hips against Kenny's, grinning when he feels the beginnings of an erection in Kenny's pants.

"Feel good?" Butters breathes, and Kenny just brings him back down into a kiss in response. Butters indulges him for a bit, sighing a little when he feels Kenny's hands on his side, trailing down and slipping his hands into his back pockets. He likes Kenny touching him, even if he's not sure what exactly is so alluring about his old gym shirt and ratty old pants.

Butters falls into it, hard—he always does when people pay him attention, and he's a sucker for anyone who likes his ass as much as Kenny appears to. He rolls his hips into Kenny's again, both of them hard and panting. Truth be told, Butters could stay up here well into the afternoon, humping lazily against Kenny until they're both whimpering and begging for more.

He hears his watch beep, though, and is effectively pulled out of his trance. Crap. All this making out with a gorgeous guy on his bed when there's a laundry list of chores to do… he's got responsibilities after all.

"Shoot," he mutters and attempts to pull back, but Kenny holds his hips firm against his and thrusts up again. Butters hangs his head and moans. Kenny feels nice against him, real nice, and he knows he'll get carried away if left to his own devices.

"Kenny, please," he groans on the tail end of another thrust. "Please, I got stuff to do. I-I'll get you off, but—"

"Dude, shut up," Kenny says softly as he keeps rolling his hips. "This… this is good, right?"

Butters nods, maybe a little too emphatically, so he hides his face in the crook of Kenny's neck as they grind against each other and waits for Kenny to tell him 'that's enough, we're done here, nice seeing you, bye,' but it never happens. Instead, Butters somehow finds himself flat on his back, Kenny on top of him (sitting right on his erection, of course) and kissing the living daylights out of him.

"Jeez," Butters pants out a laugh. "You're pretty riled up."

Kenny pauses for a second, looking around at the situation he's gotten himself into, and colors further beyond the pink tinge of arousal on his cheeks. He looks like one of those people who's just woken up from sleepwalking, five miles away from his house with a bag of pork rinds in his clutches.

"Guess so," Kenny nods and looks back at Butters. He's got something between determination and fear on his face as he reaches down and runs a hand over Butters' chest. "I do owe you, though."

Butters screws up his eyebrows, "Owe me? What for?"

Kenny snorts and shifts his hips in an eye-crossing, toe-curling manner. "You've blown me, like, four times or something. I've gotta get you back sometime."

He's nervous—Butters can feel it. His hands are shaking, he keeps swallowing back his own spit, and he's starting to remind Butters of a frightened cat.

"Oh no," Butters finds himself shaking his head. "Kenny I-I don't believe in that. Owing someone sexual favors? Makes it sound like a chore. Sex is supposed to be fun, y'know? I reckon I don't like the thought of people touchin' me 'cause they think they have to. A-an' anyway, I _like_ suckin' you off."

Kenny's brows pinch together in a frown, "So you're telling me that you'd keep blowing me, even if I never wanted to touch you back?"

"Well," Butters contemplates back. "I-I reckon I'd stop doin' it if I thought it was a lost cause. But I don't want you doin' anythin' right now just 'cause you think you should."

His erection is starting to go down anyway, so maybe this is best. He shifts out from under Kenny and stands, looking at his watch.

"Dude," Kenny just says, and Butters looks over at him. Somehow his sweater got unzipped, revealing a worn Stray Cats t-shirt, and his hood is down around his back. Kenny's got wild hair, not quite as bad as Tweek's, but it's all shaggy and frayed and looks not unlike the straw on a run-down overused broom.

And Butters would bet more than anything that he likes when people pull on it.

"What?" Butters just asks, visions of Kenny turning into an unabashed slut dancing around in his head as Kenny reaches out and pulls him down on the bed again. He kisses Butters this time, a little more timidly than before. When he reaches down to grab Butters through his jeans, he doesn't run away or flip out. He keeps moving his hand, gaining confidence in his movements every time Butters makes a noise or thrusts up against him.

"Kenny," he mutters. "I mean it, I-I'm fine if you don't wanna touch me, but please don't make me come in my pants. I-I don't like it."

"No?" Kenny grins against Butters' cheek. "Guess we'll have to do something about that, huh?"

Butters' breath hitches when Kenny undoes his button and fly and slips his hand into his pants. He hides his face in Kenny's neck when he starts touching him, slowly at first, getting surer as he goes. Then it occurs to Butters that Kenny's never had his hands on another guy before (at least, that's what he's come to gather), and starts making little noises of encouragement to help him along.

Then Butters, not one to keep his hands unoccupied for too long, makes quick work of Kenny's fly and button and dips his hands into Kenny's underwear, wrapping his erection in a loose fist and pumping slowly. He's not as practiced at handjobs—normally he just sort of sinks to his knees and gets down to business, but this is nice. Sometimes he forgets how good it can be to just touch someone and let them touch you and take it a little slow.

"Shit," Kenny mutters, voice high and desperately turned on, and it makes Butters' chest feel good. He likes being able to do this to people, so much so that it makes him whine and hide his face again.

It doesn't take him very long to come. Kenny's hand feels good on him, even gets him to inadvertently suck a hickey into his neck and buck up into the touch, like he's never had a guy's hands on him before or something.

Guys have touched Butters before. He's even had sex a couple of times—like, the kind with someone's cock in your ass and everything—and each time it's just been about… it seems kind of redundant to mention, but it's just been about _sex_. When Kenny touches him, it's more of an exploration than anything, like he's making a map of Butters in his head.

Kenny comes too, groaning and bucking up into Butters' hand. It makes Butters grin even more broadly than before. He can't help it, though.

He loves making guys come.

"Fuck," Kenny laughs after a second and goes to grab the box of tissues off of the dresser. He grabs one and tosses the box to Butters. Butters laughs as it hits him in the chest and flops back on the bed, cock softening and still hanging out, and gives a happy sigh.

"How come you look like you just got the best handjob ever?" Kenny asks.

Butters lets out a ridiculous giggle and asks, "How do you know I didn't?"

Kenny barks out a laugh, "Fantastic. Just remember to put in my obituary that I'm known for my incapacitating handjobs. I demand my legacy be known."

Butters laughs a little harder than he probably should, but hey. The boy does give excellent handjobs.

"I just don't get 'em real often is all," he says and tucks himself back into his pants before he sits up. There's a little spot of wet on his shirt, but he doesn't quite mind. He runs the palms of his hands over his knees before he stands and zips himself up.

Something seems to have stopped Kenny in his own tracks, mid-zip as it would appear, and now he's just staring at Butters, long and unblinking. It's kind of unsettling. Kenny's face is thin and kind of hollowing out now that it's losing its last layers of baby fat, and his eyes are all sunken and tried looking. It's not unlike being stared at by a ghost, Butters would imagine.

"What?" he asks, feeling the blush return to his cheeks.

"Nothing," Kenny shakes his head and finishes readjusting himself. "Um, I was gonna go get some pizza. You wouldn't wanna blow off your chores and come with me, would you? My treat, if you want."

"'the heck are you talkin' about?" Butters laughs a little. "Kenny, I'm not lettin' you buy me food."

"'scuse me, who's the one with the job here?" Kenny interjects very frankly and moves to grab his sweater off of the bed. "And I think I can spare a buck fifty for a slice of pizza for you, dude. I'm not a man of extravagant means, but I can spot you on a slice of pizza."

Butters laughs, a little more uncomfortably this time, and shifts.

"Ah, that's really nice of you an' all, but I should really stay here an' finish up everythin'," he says with a resigned smile, and then gives Kenny a light smack on the arm. "Reckon I should buy you a slice of pizza for not runnin' for the hills after touchin' me."

"Fuck you," Kenny colors and shoves him back, a little embarrassed. Butters laughs softly at that and grabs him by the wrist, pulling him into a kiss. He likes kissing Kenny, because Kenny's an awful good kisser and it's even better since he's gotten over his hang-ups about Butters being a guy… at least in the kissing department.

"I was asking to be nice," Kenny says when Butters pulls away. "Dude, you seem like you could use a break from your parents and your house and shit. Just blow it off. You're already grounded. What else can they do?"

"Mm, extend my sentence?" Butters hums and licks over the bruise he made on Kenny's neck. "Heck, I only get myself into this kinda thing 'cause I break the rules to begin with. You think a fella would learn by now, right?"

He laughs, just because it's easier than facing up to the gravity of the situation. He's got an obedience problem—he always has—and not that it matters much in the case of his parents, since he's got less than a year left living under their thumb, but he supposes it'll be a problem for when he gets a job and stuff.

"Yeah, you're a real live wire," Kenny snorts and pulls away, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Come on dude, chill with me for the afternoon. Nothin' but a little bit of good ol' fashioned teenage rebellion. Pizza, maybe the arcade, and then home. I'll even help you clean up when we get back, if you want."

"Kenny, I—"

"Be a normal kid, dude," Kenny nods. "It's the right thing to do."

Butters gives him a long, hard look before he rolls his eyes and sighs.

"Fine," he says and pulls his dresser drawer open. "But I'm gettin' my own pizza."

"Sweet," Kenny grins and sits down on the bed, looking around the room as Butters starts changing. He shucks his pants first, opting for a better-fitting pair of jeans, before tugging his shirt over his head and attempting to decide on a shirt to wear for pizza.

"Whoa," Butters hears as he pulls open another drawer, and looks over to see Kenny staring at him.

"What?" he asks.

"You're, uh," Kenny makes a gesture that vaguely represents a body builder or something. "You're fit, dude. I mean, not like, scary fit or anything, but, like… you've got arms and abs and stuff. I just totally wasn't expecting that."

Butters flushes and pulls a shirt over his head, a Spring Awakening one that his aunt sent him from when she saw the play in LA, and slides shut his dresser drawers. He goes to put his dirty clothes in the hamper and straightens up a few things before he turns back to Kenny, who's hanging over the edge of the bed and rooting around in the drawers below.

"Dude, what good is a captain's bed if you're not even going to hide your porn in the drawers?" Kenny asks.

"'cause that's the first place my mom'd look," Butters says, like it's obvious, and goes to his closet. He pulls down an old dufflebag and tosses it onto the bed, right next to Kenny. "She'd never look in an old bag."

It's not just his porn in there, either—it's everything. It's his supply of condoms, his lube, this funny box of macaroni that's shaped like penises that Bebe got him for his birthday… Kenny is, of course, enthralled.

"Dude, can I, like… borrow one of these magazines?" he asks and then looks up. "I promise, I take good care of other people's porn. Shit's sacred."

Butters laughs a little and gives him a nod. He's more than willing to share his porn with the less fortunate—he gets the feeling that Kenny will warm up to the idea of liking boys if maybe he has some good masturbation material on the subject. Then again, he can't presume to know.

"Here," he says and walks over to where Kenny has a smattering of magazines splayed out for all the world to see. He picks one out, his favorite actually, and shoves it into Kenny's hands. It's all worn and used-looking, but it's a good one. "Do you want any DVDs or anythin'? I got a few that're pretty good."

"No place to play 'em, dude," Kenny shakes his head and starts flipping through the magazine. Butters gives a sympathetic nod and goes to put the bag in his closet again. He straightens out a few more things before Kenny all but pushes him out the door. Butters barely has time to grab his jacket.

"Aw jeez," he mutters as they walk out to the sidewalk. The lawn is carpeted with crunchy brown leaves, and it's actually making Butters a little twitchy. He can hear his dad 's voice in the back of his mind, asking what kind of life he's going to have if he can't even manage to walk in the front door by ten o'clock, let alone find time to rake a few leaves. His fingers itch, "Lemme just grab the rake—"

"Dude, shut up," Kenny rolls his eyes and gives him a nudge.

"Kenny, I got _responsibilities_," he practically whines. "I can't just mess around. Tha-that's what gets me into trouble in the first place."

"Messing around," Kenny parrots, eyebrow raised and looking at Butters like he's an escaped mental patient. "Dude, how the hell did you even get grounded? You don't do jack shit."

"I do too," Butters frowns, a little indignant. "Just 'cause I don't got a fake ID or shoplift or nothin' doesn't mean I don't mi-misbehave. Why, just two weeks ago I broke my curfew."

"You broke your curfew?" Kenny echoes back again.

"Yeah," Butters gives a firm nod. "Halloween."

"And you got grounded for that," Kenny looks like he's trying to piece together the logic behind this. Butters gives him a moment before Kenny just shakes his head and keeps walking. "Goddamn, I thought myparents were shitty."

Butters frowns and jogs a bit to catch up, "Aren't they?" There's a faint outline of a bruise on Kenny's right cheek, one that Butters knows he didn't get from a baseball or a door or whatever bull he's been feeding people. He used to get those bruises too.

"Well, yeah," Kenny frowns a little, "Not like that, though."

"Ah," Butters nods and shrugs. "Well, I did break the rules."

"Still, dude," Kenny shakes his head. "That's pretty fucking harsh. My parents don't give a shit about that kind of thing. They wouldn't care if I stayed out all night—in fact, I know they don't."

"I'm sure that's not true," Butters shakes his head, because it can't be. How could anyone not care about whether or not their kid came home? Butters knows Kenny's parents drink a lot, and do drugs and stuff, so maybe… maybe that's it. Maybe the drugs make them feel like they don't care when they really do.

"Nope," Kenny just says very frankly. "It's pretty much the only they're not a pain in the ass about."

"Oh," Butters finds himself pouting, not entirely sure that he's understanding this conversation. "Well, if they're not pains about that kinda thing, what else is there?"

"Uh," Kenny grabs the back of his neck, and in that moment Butters knows he's hit a nerve. Kenny's face gets all screwed up and twitchy and he looks a little like he's debating whether or not he should share whatever horrible things are making his eyes flash like that. Butters is about to retract his question, but Kenny gets to opening his mouth first.

"I don't know," he says. "My dad flicks lit cigarette butts at me because he thinks the way I dive out of the way and yell is funny. And then he tells me that only cock-sucking ladyboys get all fussy about that kind of shit and tells me to go clean out the gutters or some shit before he gives me something to _really_ cry about…"

Butters is silent for a second before he comes up with, "Well, you're neither a ladyboy nor a cocksucker as of now, so you have that at least."

Kenny smiles a little at that and looks at the ground as they keep walking. "Shitty parents, man," he says.

Butters nods, "Shitty parents." Then, in an eternal blow for optimism, says, "At least you got your brother an' sister, though, right? I mean, at least you sorta got built in friends."

Kenny laughs in that really awful way that makes Butters want to curl into himself and never go out into the world again. It's a laugh that's meant to make him feel like a dumbass, and that's exactly what it does.

"Dude, you don't know how siblings work, do you?" Kenny asks as they jay-walk across the street and into the more central part of town. "The nicest thing my brother ever did for me was get me a band-aid when my dad split my lip open when I was six. He's a fucking twat. He eats all my food, hogs our truck, and chipped my tooth the other day, see?"

Kenny bares his teeth and pulls down his bottom lip. Sure enough, one of his front teeth has a little chunk taken out of it. Butters wants to ask if the bruise and the tooth are related, but decides against it. Another time, maybe.

"What about Karen?" Butters asks. Karen's in his intro to computers class. She sits next to Butters in the back, and they always play around in photoshop and exchange music via Butters' extra USB drive.

"She's just… I don't know, dude," Kenny sighs. "Like, sometimes I just think she stopped needing me to be her big brother, you know? She must've seen me in real bad shape or something, 'cause she just, like… suddenly _knew_."

"Knew what?" Butters asks after Kenny's been silent for a few seconds, though he gets the feeling that he's not going to get a very satisfying answer.

"That I'm just as fucked up as everyone else in our goddamned family," Kenny says, though, and it gets caught in his throat like he's… like he's about to cry. Butters wants to throw his arms around Kenny and never let him go, because Kenny doesn't cry. He's just not _that guy_. Heck, Butters isn't even that guy.

Kenny quickly shakes it off and pulls his hood tight as soon as they get to the pizza place. It's reasonably packed for this late on a Saturday morning. Butters checks his watch—okay, it's almost noon, and he does remember being a kid with nothing better to do than hang out and eat pizza with his friends.

"What kind do you like?" Kenny asks, voice soft so only Butters can hear.

"I told you I'm gettin' my own, mister," Butters replies just as softly, and sticks out his tongue for good measure.

"I know," Kenny says as he takes out his wallet. "Just a question."

"Uh-huh," Butters snorts and follows suit. "What good's a question like that?"

"This is how I make friends," Kenny replies dryly. "Answer carefully, because if you answer pineapple, anchovies, peppers, or mushrooms, we can no longer be friends."

"You don't like mushrooms?" Butters laughs a little.

"Unless I'm going to trip motherfucking balls if I eat them, no," Kenny sticks out his tongue and shakes his head, like he can't imagine anything more disgusting. It makes Butters laugh a little harder, and revel in the gagging noises Kenny makes when he orders two slices of veggie pizza, which is heavily laden with mushrooms and peppers and a whole litany of other things that make Kenny grimace when he takes his first bite.

Kenny orders two slices of meat lover's, which prompts Butters to ask, "So what was your first clue that you liked cock again?"

Kenny gives him a half-hearted shove and twists his face into a little frown that Butters wants to kiss right off his face. It's sort of awful—Butters has pretty much resigned himself to the fact that he's never going to have a significant other while he's in South Park, but he knows he's an intensely affectionate person and it's kind of hard to keep sex and affection separate for him. He doesn't want to be Kenny's boyfriend, really he doesn't, it's just… kissing and stuff is the only way he's ever able to make people feel better, since no one wants to listen to him talk or anything like that.

They find a table back in a hidden corner that's all tagged up and etched into and eat mostly in silence. Butters has never been a quick eater, mostly because his mom always told him that that's how little boys grew up to be big and fat like Eric Cartman, which his father always followed up with stories of his cousin Dan, who got so big and fat that no one wanted to marry him and he ended up dying alone in his apartment when he was thirty-three, and no one found him for three days.

Kenny eats like he hasn't done so for days, which Butters thinks might be a little true.

"Not hungry?" Kenny looks up.

"Slow eater," Butters supplies and eats a mushroom plain, just to make Kenny pull a face again. He likes hanging out with Kenny, he decides. He's nice to him, and that's more than Butters can say for most people.

He doesn't have time to say anything about it, though, because somehow in spite of their attempts to hide they are soon joined by Stan and, surprisingly, Gary.

"Hey, fellas," Butters beams as Gary slides in next to him, and Stan next to Kenny. Gary looks a little more reticent than Stan, like he doesn't think they should just be sitting there without asking, so Butters turns up his smile a few more watts and looks at Kenny out of the corner of his eye. He looks a little uncomfortable, but Butters gives him a little kick under the table and has a hard time not laughing when Kenny's face screws up and he kicks him back.

"Gary, I thought you an' your family fed the homeless on Saturdays," Butters just says, and Gary nods.

"We do," he says, "But my little sister got sick so I decided to stay home and watch the Sound of Music with her."

"And no one suspects you're a fag?" Kenny asks quietly, through a mouthful of pizza. It makes Butters frown a little. He knows Kenny's not doing it to be a jerk, because (again) he's not a jerk, that he's doing it to distract from the fact that he and Butters are eating pizza alone together on a Saturday afternoon after just having had each other's hands down their pants, but that still doesn't make it okay.

Thankfully, Gary doesn't respond, just shrugs and runs his fingernails through the etchings on the table.

"Kenny," Butters says, and there's a warning tone to it that makes Stan look at them both curiously. He catches Butters' eye and smiles knowingly, which makes Butters sigh and clap his hands over his face. Stan's a good guy, but he can be kind of a, to use a McCormick favorite, twat sometimes. Especially when it comes to his old friends.

"So, Kenny," Stan says, a little smug. "Butters is pretty good at sucking dick, right?"

"Aw, Stan," Butters groans at about the same time as Gary lets slip an, "Oh, Jesus Christ" (which he never ever does).

Kenny, on the other hand, has gone sheet white. He looks at Stan intensely, more intensely than Butters has ever seen him look at anyone before. In fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised if Kenny just up and threw everything off the table and ran out the door.

"Dude, it's cool," Stan just says when he realizes that Kenny's _not_ ready to discuss anything remotely relating to Butters' ability to suck dick. "Lots of guys get their dick sucked by Butters. It's not a big deal. I did."

"Me too," Gary nods. It sounds like a conversation they would have if Butters wasn't in the room, but people don't generally take into account any of his feelings on the subject. Not that he minds, it gives him the chance to look at Kenny and give him a reaffirming nod, hoping for a moment that this will at least placate him.

"I said I'm a slut," he shrugs. Kenny shakes his head like he's snapping himself out of a trance and taps Stan on the shoulder so he can get out. Stan lets him, and though he does attempt to ask Kenny if he's okay, he never gets an answer. Kenny's long gone and out the door by the time Butters can even think to follow him.

"That was weird," Stan frowns a little, and jumps when he realizes that both Gary and Butters are glaring at him. "What?" he asks, like he couldn't have possibly done anything wrong.

"Stan, what the hell?" Butters whines as he sits back down. "You don't just _do _that."

"I have to agree," Gary shakes his head, though he's still calm as can be.

"Hey, he called you a fag first," Stan points out, a little incensed.

"Stan, I'm a Mormon," Gary replies very frankly. "I've been called much worse for much less."

Stan looks between Gary and Butters, begging for at least one of them to be sympathetic to him, but it doesn't happen. "Guys, come on," he says. "It's Kenny. Y'know, _fast cars and fast women_? Come on, it's a little funny."

"Even if it was, you don't just do that!" Butters exclaims. "Heck, how'd you feel if I… if I told your dad all the kinds of stuff you get up to when no one's lookin'? I mean, you'd never do that to Gary, why would you do that to Kenny?"

"Whoa, dude," Stan frowns, but Butters barely hears him before he barrels on.

"Y'know, just 'cause someone fools around with someone doesn't mean they're ready t'go announcin' it to the world," he continues, and he can feel his words start running together like they're apt to do when he's just plain mad. "It's his decision if he even wants anyone to know to begin with, an' you bein' his friend an' bein' in a similar situation, I think you'd have half a mind t'keep your mouth shut until he said somethin' himself."

Butters stops, satisfied with his tirade, and sits back with a cross of his arms. At the very least, Stan and Gary have both been stunned into silence. Butters can't quite help it, though. He likes Kenny enough to want him to be happy, and have everything happen on his own terms, and he knows Stan well enough to know for certain that the boy knows better.

"He's right," is all Gary says when he turns to Stan. "I mean, not everyone takes to this kind of thing so elegantly." He gives Stan a pointed look that shuts him up almost instantly. Butters sighs, because if no one is going to go look for Kenny, he figures he'd at least better. He taps Gary on the shoulder, who's all ready to move out of his way, but they're soon joined by Eric and Kyle, who have their arms full of food and books respectively.

"Hey man," Kyle says, looking directly at Stan, like he wants to slide in next to him, but Eric beats him to it. He slides in next to Gary and Butters instead, though he looks like he'd rather be sitting anywhere else. "I tried calling you yesterday, you didn't answer."

"Oh," Stan frowns and grabs a slice of pizza off of Eric's plate. "Sorry, I was at practice."

"Fellas, if you could just—"

"Shut the fuck up, Butters," Kyle holds out a hand to silence him, which makes Gary at least bat it down and give Butters a sympathetic look. Butters shrugs as though to say "_it happens all the time"_, because it does. "Dude, you and I were gonna chill."

"Jesus, Kyle," Eric quirks up an eyebrow. "Do you need to change your tampon or something?"

"All right, I really need to get—"

"Butters, shut the fuck up," Kyle snaps again, and Butters rolls his eyes.

"I'll go under the damn table if I have to," he mutters and starts looking for an exit route, but Gary shakes his head and looks at the floor with a grimace. Stan's watching him, and Butters sees a broad smile stretch over his face, the kind you only get when you're absolutely infatuated with someone. Butters thinks it's nice—Gary makes Stan sweeter, keeps him in check when he gets to being a jerk, and Stan lets Gary be himself, and doesn't even mind that Gary doesn't like to drink or curse or any of that stuff.

Kyle sees this smile and scowls, and just like that Butters gets it. Kyle's one of those fellas who's oblivious to his own feelings, so he probably doesn't even realize what's happening, but Butters sees right through him. Apparently, Butters isn't the only one, either. He looks down the table and catches eyes with Eric, he too only a spectator, and just shakes his head. Eric's not exactly subtle with this kind of thing, but he's just naturally sharp when it comes to people (something Butters acquired after a long period of time). Butters is just grateful Kenny left before he could pick up on that too.

"Kyle, let Butters out," Gary says very calmly and goes to rest a hand gingerly on Kyle's shoulder. He shrugs out of it, though, and just stands, harsh and resigned as he allows both Gary and Butters to slide out of the booth. "I think I'm going to go check on my sister, actually," Gary says then and gives Stan a wave. Kyle gives him a look that he probably doesn't even realize he's giving before sliding back into the booth. Butters doesn't know what he's saying, only that he's laying into Stan and giving him crap.

Butters figures it's probably hard, having feelings for your best friend and not knowing it. Probably why he's so angry all the time. Good thing Butters got out of there before Stan could open up his big mouth about Butters' blowing him or something. Kyle already isn't too fond of him—he doesn't need that adding onto whatever list Kyle may have going.

"Man, I tell ya," Gary shakes his head as they exit the restaurant. "People can sure be rude sometimes. You okay, dude?"

Butters snorts and nods, "Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Sure?" Gary asks, all sympathetic eyes and caring smile. It's easy to see what Stan sees in him; he's good-looking and nice as pie. Good at everything, too—probably doesn't give his parents nearly as much grief as Butters seems to give his.

"Yeah," Butters nods and gives him an easy smile. Gary nods back and gives him a friendly pat on the arm.

"Well, I'm here if you ever need to talk, dude," he says. "Sometimes a guy's just gotta hash things out, you know?"

The worst part is that Butters knows… Crap. Butters knows that if he were to break down and cry right here, Gary would let him. Not like Stan would, either. Gary would actually listen to him and offer an objective viewpoint to… well, to whatever it is that Butters is feeling.

"Thanks," Butters gives him a smile back. Gary nods again and gives him a one-armed hug, followed by a happy, "Take care."

He's gone before Butters can even exhale. He likes Gary, really he does, but his niceness can be overwhelming sometimes. Gary is one of those people who's so nice to everyone that Butters often finds himself wondering if the guy is actually genuine or not. He probably is, Butters shakes his head, but he can't help that one little inkling of doubt he has.

He walks back to his house, sighing when he sees that Kenny's bike is gone. He also cringes when he realizes that he left the door unlocked again and is just thankful he got back before his parents did. He locks the door behind him and goes immediately to speed clean the what he missed downstairs. If he works really efficiently, he'll be able to get the front yard done before four when his parents get home, and the back yard done maybe before dinner.

When Butters takes the stairs two by two back up to his room so he can get quickly back into his gardening clothes. His mom will actually murder him if he messes up his jeans. He tears off his shirt and grabs the one out of the hamper. He pauses when he sees a yellow piece of paper, torn rather obviously off of one of his legal pads, taped to the mirror he has beside his door. On it, scratched in rather untidy and barely legible letters, is a note.

_"Sorry I left so soon. Shit got crazy and I have to be at work at 4. _

_Took the mag cuz you said I could. I'll bring it back to you later. _

_I'll help you rake next weekend if you want._

_-K"_

* * *

**Chapter took longer than expected. I've been going through stuff (school stuff, mental stuff, all that crap...) but among all that, writing this fic is keeping me sane. Seriously, your guys' reviews were way encouraging this week, and I definitely needed it, so thank you. **_  
_

**Chapter title is from _Rocky Horror_ again. It's a phrase that I feel actually speaks volumes upon volumes about Butters, but I won't get into that here. **

**Have a great week!**


	6. You're Never Gonna Fit in Much, Kid

**Chapter 6: You're Never Gonna Fit In Much, Kid**

The first person to notice he's a little worse for the wear is Ms. Epstein. She's been assigning him smaller comic projects to help him practice with his framing and design and to sort of solidify his style, and this newest one is to portray a scene accurately without using any dialogue or something. She's been kind of letting on that she's worried, but she hasn't outright said anything, which Kenny appreciates.

He's been stuck all week. She assigned it to him on Monday after class, and it's now Saturday night and he still has no fucking idea what he's going to do. There isn't a consequence attached to it, but he's got this weird thing where he doesn't want to disappoint her, if that makes sense.

Kenny walks in his front door, tired and hot and sweaty after helping Butters rake his yard (and having his hand down Butters' pants again). Karen's on the couch watching Cupcake Wars, something she does solely when she and Kenny are the only people in the house.

"Hey," she smiles. "Wanna sit and watch? This vegan twat is making red velvet—Frenchie's gonna flip."

Kenny laughs and nods. He goes upstairs to grab his science book out of his bag before coming down and settling into his homework. Science isn't even remotely interesting to him, and the fact that he's taking a whole advanced class about it… yeah, he's not doing great with it. Mostly he just copies Butters' homework when he can, but Butters is being a wang about it lately.

Like, he gets Cs on his own with this shit, okay?

"You get Cs anyway," Karen frowns. "If you're getting them in AP classes, either the classes are shitty or you're actually kind of adept." He gets a brief flash of himself being all smart and shit, like Kyle, in argyle sweaters and giant glasses (even though Kyle owns neither) and getting to go to school somewhere away from here so he can be all academic.

He's not sure if he likes that. He's not smart. Like, even if he was, he's pretty sure he wouldn't be good at it, like Kyle or Cartman are.

Kenny sinks lower into his book. He stares at the pages, but they fail to make sense. He reads the words, understands what they mean on their own, but every time he tries to put it all together, his brain malfunctions and he ends up getting pissed off.

It's like that time Kevin tried to read the instructions on the back of a box of pasta-roni and threw it across the room.

Speak of the devil—no sooner has Kenny started scratching down the answers to the review questions at the end of the chapter does Kevin come in the front door, still smoking a cigarette and wearing a ratty denim vest over one of their dad's old Def Leppard shirts.

"What's up, cunts?" Kevin asks as he shuts the door.

"You know someone's gonna shoot you one day, right?" Karen asks, eyebrows high on her forehead as Kevin smacks Kenny upside the head so he'll move down the couch and make room.

"I've already come to terms with the fact that I'm gonna go out like James Dean," he says and kicks his boots up on their rickety coffee table.

"Just don't do it in the truck," Kenny mutters, which makes Karen bark out a laugh and Kevin just look at him with what only can be defined as 'rage face'. It's not full-blown quite yet, but it's enough to get a flare of nerves going in Kenny's gut.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Kevin asks and grabs Kenny's book from him. "Shit, this is fucking heavy."

"With knowledge," Kenny says, unable to hide his smirk. "I'm doing my science homework, dickbag, give it back."

"Ugh," Kevin pulls a disgusted face and dumps the book back on Kenny's lap. "Fucking faggot."

"How, Kevin," Kenny snaps back. "How does doing my homework somehow make me a faggot."

Kevin snorts and jabs his thumb into a bruise on Kenny's ribs (that he fucking well knows is there, the sadistic prick), and Kenny lets out a little whimper. He's already sore all over from helping Butters earlier, and he's got a tiredness settling over him that he can feel in his bones. He's really not in the mood for Kevin's shit. Really, really not in the mood for it.

"Aw," Kevin coos and jabs him again. "What, you've got some pain in your lady parts or something?"

"Kevin, fuck off!" Karen shouts. "We're watching TV, you piece of shit!"

Kevin is stunned into silence, like most people are when they hear Karen yell. She's mostly calm, the most zen person Kenny knows. He doesn't know how she gets through life without anything bothering her, but there it is. Kevin turns to the TV, still silent, and Kenny watches as confusion and disgust twists up on and mars his face.

"The fuck is this shit?" he asks.

"Cupcake Wars," Karen replies tersely.

"Aw, fuck," Kevin laughs. "This is the one—it is! This is the one with that fucking Limey polesmoker, isn't it?"

"Kevin!" Karen shouts again. "That's not okay!"

"I know," Kevin nods. "Guy's a fucking cocksucker, dude. Freaks me out too."

"_Kevin_," Karen implores again.

"What?"

"Enough with the slurs!"

"What slurs am I using, Karen."

"Kevin, are you fucking serious? Can we just watch TV without you being an ignorant fuckhole for, like, ten minutes please?"

"Oh, cut your fucking liberal hippie bullshit," Kevin rolls his eyes, voice louder and more annoyed. Kenny's already tired, and the argument isn't helping. He hunches over and pulls his hood up over his head, trying to block out everything and breathe evenly, in and out. That ugly tar monster is back in his chest, slopping around and hardening in his lungs, suffocating his heart and making him feel a little like he's about to spontaneously combust. His entire brain feels like it's on fire. They're still talking but Kenny can't hear it. All he can process is white noise, and he thinks he may pass out if he stays down here.

"Hey," Kevin barks as Kenny tosses his book on the floor and makes a break for the stairs. He doesn't hear Kevin follow him, which he's grateful for, but he locks himself in his room anyway. He wrenches open his dresser drawer and pulls a joint out of an old Altoid tin, lighting up and taking in a deep, terrified lungful of smoke.

He collapses on his bed, already feeling a little better, and smokes the whole thing by himself, hoping it'll put him to sleep.

Normally, this kind of thing would find Kenny hurling himself in front of a train or slicing himself up in the bathroom or putting a bullet through his head, but he doesn't want to do that with Karen and Kevin right downstairs. Not that they'd remember, or that Kevin at least would care, but he doesn't want to put them through seeing him lifeless in a puddle of his own blood. He'd rather just be able to die without anyone ever finding him.

He'd trade immortality for the ability to just disappear any day.

He grabs his big art folder, the one Ms. Epstein gave him to keep his big comic paper in, a pencil and spreads out on a clean patch on his floor. He's not going to make a comic, but he has to do something to keep himself from breaking down and killing himself anyway.

He has a test on Tuesday, one that he actually thinks he might do well on. He doesn't want to risk being dead for a month again.

So he just starts drawing. He doesn't know where this is going or what he's doing with it, but what he ends up making is a monster—a teeny-tiny tar monster to be exact. It's all globby and drippy and it's got wings and about sixty eyes and as he draws, Kenny starts constructing a little story for it in his head.

He draws a small, scared-looking child beside it, and like that, it clicks.

He stays up well into the night, illustrating a wordless story about a little boy being overtaken by this little demon, ending with the boy dead and cold on the floor, and the tar monster fat and happy. There's no color—not that Kenny has any colored pencils or markers to do that anyway—and Kenny sort of likes it that way.

When he's finally done, the sun is long since up on Sunday morning, and he passes out cold on his bed for what feels like a decade.

He doesn't eat, just smokes as much weed as possible, sneaks a few beers, and occasionally leaves his room to pee, when needed.

He's not feeling as shitty as before, just kind of empty. He looks at his pages of art from time to time, numb and void of any thoughts. It's like looking into a mirror—you recognize yourself, see the flaws, acknowledge the good, and just sort of can't do anything but stare, wondering if what you're seeing is really what's there.

"Oh, Kenny," Ms. Epstein breathes when he brings the pages to her at lunch that Monday. She puts a hand over her heart as she scans over the pages. "Kenny, these are breathtaking, but very… very disturbing. Just—I just want to give you a hug. Do you mind if I give you a hug?"

"Um," Kenny shifts his weight from foot to foot, adjusting his bag over his shoulder as he does. "Yeah, I guess so."

For a thin hippie from out west, she's got a suffocating hug. She crushes Kenny against her and rubs her hand over his back.

"Kenny, if you ever, _ever_ have anything you want to talk about," she says as she pulls away. "You do not hesitate to come to me."

"Okay," Kenny frowns a little and starts shaking his head, but Ms. Epstein just puts her bony hand on his cheek and gives him a sympathetic smile.

"You are a kind, caring individual," she says. "And if you have something that's bothering you, you deserve to be heard. We are so much more than the things that make us feel small and helpless."

Kenny screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. He's not going to cry—he's just not—but fuck, that hits him hard. He throws his arms around her and buries his face in her long, stringy brown hair, still not crying, but fuck, it's hard. She rubs her hand over his back again, comforting him in a way Kenny suspects a mother would her child. It's strange, he knows, but he'll take whatever he can get.

He's feeling just shitty enough to want to tell her everything, and just fucking frightened enough to keep his mouth shut. What if she tells his parents? Or worse, what if she tells him everything's okay? So he keeps his mouth shut and waits until the feeling is small enough yet again to stuff back down and keep quiet.

"Do you have anywhere to be right now?" she asks, and Kenny shakes his head, still holding onto her like he'll fall through the floor if he lets go. "Would you like some tea? I just brought some of my good ginger tea, if you'd like."

Kenny doesn't know why, but he nods and goes to sit at a nearby table. Ms. Epstein goes to the little office she shares with the conjoined art room next door and returns with two steaming cups of gingery tea. Kenny blows across the top, not saying anything, and takes a sip. It's hot, not enough to burn his tongue, but just enough to warm him thoroughly. He pushes back his hood and rolls up his sleeves, and it somehow prompts a satisfied hum out of Ms. Epstein.

"There's your face," she says, and Kenny suppresses a massive eye roll. That's what everyone says to him when they see him with his hood down—it's not like the hoods on his sweatshirts are at all concealing as far as his face goes. "You look a little haggard… do you want some trail mix or something?"

"I'm all right," Kenny shakes his head, hoping his stomach doesn't rumble too loudly in disagreement. He keeps sipping his tea and looking off to the side, not wanting to make eye contact and feeling stupidly vulnerable with his whole head exposed like this. Ms. Epstein waits for a little bit before she leans back in her chair, legs crossed and hands clasped neatly in her lap.

"You know," she begins. "Art really is a magnificent thing. Doesn't matter the medium—oils, pastels, pencils, markers… even written words and music. It's all a means of expression, of coping with what we can't handle otherwise. Artists have the remarkable ability to capture what we're feeling and translate it into something else, and if we're lucky, we put translate it into something someone else can see or hear or read and understand, that might give them even a fraction of the comfort it gives us to create."

"I like guys."

And there it is. Hanging over them, suspended in space for all eternity, like it's trapped inside one of those big white balloons you see in all the old comics.

_I _

_like _

_guys_.

Ms. Epstein seems to be a little stunned by the confession, and it makes Kenny hide his face in his hands. This is it—he's totally exposed, all his cards laid out on the table before him, and he doesn't like it at all.

"Oh," is all he gets as a response, and he's just about to grab his bag and leave when she keeps on going. "Well… is that a problem?"

He looks up from his hands and locks eyes with her. She looks very sincere, very frank, and like she wants nothing more than to help. It's strange. People don't look at him like that too often. He squirms a little in his seat before folding his arms over the desk and resting his chin on them, blowing a chunk of his hair out of his eyes just so it's clear just how dejected (and badly in need of a hair cut) he is.

"If my parents find out, I'm fucked," he says softly, and then winces when he realizes that he cursed. "Sorry."

"It's all right," she smiles a little. "I've heard the word before… Do you mind me asking why you don't want your parents to find out?"

Kenny shakes his head, "It's just not okay with them. I promise, I'm not being a pissy little faggot about that—they'd throw me out on the street."

"Okay, wow," Ms. Epstein blinks. "Maybe don't toss around the slurs. Now, we can talk about this if you want—"

"I don't!" Kenny snaps a little, and reels back when he realizes he's shouting. He takes a shaky breath and looks up at the ceiling. "I want a fucking… magic pill that'll take all of this away. I want a fucking reboot button on my life that I can just press and I'm born with normal parents in a normal town with normal people and a normal body and a normal brain and just a normal life. That's all I want. For once, in just one aspect of my life I thought I'd be normal. Nope—that had to go and get fucked up too."

Ms. Epstein is sitting with her hand on her cheek and looking rather helpless. Kenny can't help it though. Someone wants to know how he feels? Fine. This is how he feels.

"Kenny, 'normal' is a very relative term," she shakes her head. "And part of life for some people is learning to be okay—"

"No," Kenny frowns. "I don't want to be okay with this. I don't need anyone's 'It Gets Better' bullshit about this. I don't want to learn how to deal with it, I want it to go away..." he trails off.

But that doesn't look like it's going to happen, is what he wants to say. That doesn't look like it's going to happen because every time he kisses Butters or touches him or even just spends time with him, he knows that it's never going to go away. He's always going to get butterflies in his stomach when he sees Butters smile, and he's always going to feel this insane sense of accomplishment and giddiness at that blissful face he gets just after he comes.

It's like he gets to feel good for five whole minutes before reality comes crashing back down and he realizes what he's done. He remembers that it's not normal, that he doesn't have super cool progressive parents who are cool with him being different, that he doesn't have a place he can go in his mind where this is all okay.

He's a freak of nature, in every aspect. Once upon a time, that didn't sound so bad.

Now he can't think of anything worse.

He thanks Ms. Epstein quickly for the tea, but makes a hasty exit. He knows he'll have to see her tomorrow, that storming out is insanely anticlimactic, but hey, he's partially gay. He's entitled to a few tantrums, right?

Kenny doesn't bother attempting to sign out for early leave. He doesn't have a ride and he's too pissy to be in a car with anyone right now anyway. He figures he'll probably hang out under the bleachers at the field until he can catch the bus with Karen. Otherwise he'll get in trouble for still being on campus or something.

He walks by the football field and sees the track team practicing hurdles. Gary's on track, because of course he is, but surprisingly that doesn't deter Kenny from sitting and watching them. The coach looks a little suspicious, but Gary spots Kenny just in time to go over and have a few words with the coach. She sighs, gives him a stern look, but tosses her head toward Kenny anyway.

Gary gets up to him in a ridiculously quick amount of time and plops down next to him, all sickening smiles and sunny dispositions.

"Hey, man," he beams.

"Fuck off," Kenny scowls and turns to face the world before him.

"No thanks," Gary shrugs brightly. "What's with the sourpuss?"

"The what?" Kenny cocks an eyebrow. Whatever it is, it sounds dirty.

"That's a rough translation of 'what crawled up your ass and died'," Gary explains, smile persistent.

Kenny screws up his eyebrows and gives Gary a look before he starts laughing a little. Gary curses like a kid, like his tongue is heavy can't quite form comfortably over the words yet. It's funny to Kenny, at least a little bit, because he's been cursing since he's been speaking. And he can definitely hear Stan's inflections in just about every curse word that passes Gary's lips—like, they say 'ass' the exact same way.

It's funny.

"Man, what are you doing up here?" Kenny asks and pulls his cigarettes out of his pocket. Gary grabs them before Kenny can even get to looking for his lighter and gives him a stern look.

"We're on school property," he says. "You're going to get yourself arrested."

"Fuck," Kenny laughs and shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair and giving a scratch. "Will you just cut the crap and tell me what you want?"

"I just want to make sure you're okay, dude," Gary's face pinches into a frown. Kenny sighs—Gary even says 'dude' like Stan does.

"Just… shit," Kenny says, like it explains anything. Gary nods, pretending that it does, and fiddles with Kenny's cigarettes in his fingers.

"I know how you feel," he says. "Hey, the bad stuff doesn't last, though. You might feel like garbage right now, but there's calm after the storm, you know?"

Kenny screws his eyes shut and rubs them with the heels of his hands.

"Man, how do you do it," he asks softly. "Like, Butters I get. There's not a person in the world who didn't see that shit coming. And Stan, fine. He's always been kind of a 'mo. But you? Like, no offense, I'm not questioning it or anything, but… don't you ever just wish you were normal?"

Gary looks at him for a moment, blinking his big green eyes and looking off for a second before he replies, "Well, normal's a relative ter—"

"No," Kenny says firmly. "Don't feed me that shit. Just be straight with me for a minute. You can't tell me there's not one fucking part of you that just _hates_ that you like sucking dick."

Kenny's not expecting a reaction—at least, not the one he gets. Gary crushes Kenny's pack of cigarettes in his hand and rests his forehead against his knuckles. He's taking deep breaths in and out and trying to get to a hold of himself, it looks like.

"Dude, keep it to yourself," he says softly, finally looking up and around to make sure no one's listening before he scoots a bit closer and leans in.

"Of course there is…" he continues, quieter than before, "more than a part. Knowing what I could lose? Kenny my entire family would disown me. I'd be kicked out of my church. I wouldn't have a place to live or anywhere to go. My entire family is Mormon, and Stan's the only real friend I've got in this town who'd help me out if something like that happened. Of _course_ I hate that there's something about me that puts my life in such Jeopardy, but—"

Gary takes a shaky breath and rubs at the bridge of his nose, "But it _is _a part of me, just like my family, and just like being a Mormon. And Stan makes me happy, but sometimes—" he pauses again, swallowing a lump in his throat before he rasps out, "Yeah, sometimes I wish there was a prayer strong enough to take this away. Sometimes you get those thoughts, like… you'd do anything, right?"

Gary looks at him and gives him a more sullen smile this time. Kenny's stunned into silence, wondering if he's heard all of that right. Gary's so upbeat and positive, Kenny always finds himself wondering if there's any sincere feeling under there, or if he just pretends it doesn't exist. Kenny runs his fingers through his hair and just gives a nod.

"Fuckin' A, dude," he says. "Y'know, you're all right."

"Ha," Gary laughs, embittered and cold. "Because I have bad thoughts_, _like you? I never understood how feeling crummy is supposed to make me _all right_."

He slaps the cigarettes back into Kenny's hand and stands.

"I'll see you later," he says, and with that takes the steps two by two back down to the field. Kenny feels kind of icy as he pulls a cigarette out of the pack and slips it between his lips. All this new shit considered, he doesn't really care about the prospect about getting expelled for smoking on school premises right now.

He clears off when the bell rings, just so the coach won't get suspicious, and goes to hang out under the bleachers instead. He smokes two more cigarettes and doodles a bit in his notebook, but for the most part tries to get rid of the disgusting feeling in his gut. He can't, though. He can't. It's always there, ever present, and it only gets worse when he realizes he's sketching a very familiar likeness of Butters' big doofy mug, smiling that big doofy smile.

Kenny flips the notebook closed and heads back toward the building, trying not to smoke another cigarette. If anything, he doesn't want to talk to Kevin yet, or ask him to buy him another pack.

He walks by the theater and pushes the door open. It's empty, but he can see the sets for the play, minimalistic as they are, all propped up on the back wall and ready to be used. They play is still about three weeks away, but Butters is already starting to get stressed about it. Wendy's busy with being in the play, being in every other club under the sun, and also with maintaining her sterling GPA, so she handed the reins over to Butters on this production.

It's driving the poor kid insane.

Kenny goes up to the stage and starts poking around a bit. There really is no one in there—he's all alone. He sits on the very edge of the stage, right next to the ancient boom box the club uses for practice. Kenny checks to make sure it's plugged in, and pushes play.

It's a mix CD, Kenny gathers, mostly of old soul music. There's a lot of Aretha Franklin, which Kenny kind of digs. He picked up an old box of tapes and CDs at a swap meet once, and it was mostly soul music and a bunch of other shit from the 70s. It's this kind of stuff that gets Kenny to tapping on his legs, feeling the rhythm coursing through him, gets him to mouthing '_chain-chain-chaaaaain'_ like he's not just a skinny piece of white trash who can't accept the fact that he likes guys.

Because it is a fact.

He likes guys.

Like it's fucking on cue, a familiar tune comes over the speakers and Kenny grins. He hops up, as if on cue, and starts in right along with her, '_What you want—baby, I got it'_, because sometimes, when all else fails, he can pretend he's someone else, singing about someone else's problems. He dances around like a white boy with a club foot, he knows he does, but grace is not his department. He doesn't sound so bad, though. He hasn't gotten the chance to sing much of late, and God only knows what his dad would do if he heard him singing this stuff.

"_R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me_," he belts out, probably a little more loudly than he should, but he's already committed, damn it. "_R-E-S-P-E-C-T_, _take out T-C-P_."

"It's actually '_take care, TCB_'."

Kenny whirls around, eyes wide and heart beating a thousand times a minute. Butters is standing behind him, arms folded and looking about as smugly amused as Kenny's ever seen anyone look.

"The fuck are you doing in here?" he asks.

"I was workin' on some club stuff," Butters frowns. "I got sixth period off, so I came here to do drama stuff before the rehearsal starts."

"Oh," Kenny coughs a little and flips his hood back up over his head, since apparently he was dancing so hard it just sort of… flew back.

"You're good," Butters smiles.

"Butters…"

"I think you capture the voice of Aretha Franklin real well," Butters continues, smile broadening when he sees Kenny flush. "Aw, come on. I like your singin' voice. I mean, you hum all the time when you help me at home, an' when you help the fellas with makin' the sets an' everything. Why didn't you audition for the play?"

"Uh," Kenny tugs on his sweater strings. "Flamboyant theatricality isn't really my style."

Butters raises his eyebrows, "Kenny, I just walked in on you singin' and dancin' to Aretha Franklin, that is the biggest lie you've ever told me."

"Fine," Kenny snaps. "I just didn't want to, okay? Can we, like, not talk about this right now? Or ever? I'm just, like… never mind. Just, not gonna talk about it."

"Okay," Butters nods, smile gone and now looking like a kicked puppy. Kenny rolls his eyes and puts his hands on his hips. He doesn't want to talk anymore. Over the last two hours he's said more than he has in the last two years. He just wants to close the book and be done with his feelings today.

"What time does rehearsal start?" Kenny asks.

"Ugh, three-thirty," Butters groans and goes to sit down on the edge of the stage. He pushes the pause button on the boom box, and Kenny goes to sit beside him. "I'm just so tired, reckon all I wanna do is go home an' sleep."

"Sleep's good," Kenny concurs and pulls his backpack over to them. "Hey, I've got some materials to return, while I have you here."

"Aw, come on," Butters rolls his eyes and laughs as Kenny takes a few of Butters' magazines out of his bag and hands them to him. "Kenny, we're at school."

"So?" Kenny shrugs. "There was some stuff on the bottom one that I kind of steered clear of."

Butters frowns and looks at it, flipping through the pages and coming into contact with something on the centerfold. He rubs it on his fingers and laughs a little.

"It's just lube, you're okay," he says.

"Why's there lube on it?" Kenny asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer. Butters just looks at him with a blank sort of expression before he blinks a few times and looks back at the magazine. He mumbles something, and Kenny has to ask him to repeat it several times before he gets Butters to admit, "I use lube when I p-play with myself."

Kenny doesn't know why this confession gets him so uncomfortably turned on—maybe the thought of Butters reaching into his pants and getting himself to make all those nice noises is just too much to bear right now. Plus, Butters is looking intensely ashamed of himself right now, which leads Kenny to believe it's not just Butters slicking up his hand and going at it either.

"What do you do?" he asks, voice low and a little thick. He checks his watch. There's still half an hour before school lets out—more than enough time to get to what's making Butters blush so hard. He shouldn't care, he knows he shouldn't, but there's some sick part of him that wants to know everything about it.

"Ke-Kenny," Butters says softly as Kenny's hand comes to rest right beside his leg.

"You can tell me," he says, mouth very dry and throat very scratchy. "I just grab my dick and go. Sometimes I steal some of Karen's hand lotion if she's not home. Mostly I just spit in my hand, though."

"That's it?" Butters asks. "You never even stuck your fingers up your butt or anything?"

"Ew, why?" Kenny grimaces. "Shit's gay."

"And asking another fella how he likes to handle himself isn't?" Butters points out. Kenny frowns, but scoots closer to him anyway, hand moving from its spot on the stage and up to where it can trace over Butters' soft, warm cheek.

He leans in to kiss him—lightly, though, barely even a touch—and grins when Butters melts into it.

"I got this toy," he admits softly. "It vibrates. An' if I stick it in me an' jerk off at the same time, I come real hard. Heck, one time I didn't even need to touch myself. I-I got it goin' just right a-an' I came buckets."

"Fuck," Kenny breathes, resting his forehead against Butters' temple. "How'd you manage to get a toy, dude?"

"Oh, um," Butters flushes further. "I-I kinda maybe went down on a guy who works at one of those shops, an' he just sorta let me buy it."

Kenny doesn't know why he feels a little pang in his stomach when he thinks of Butters going down on someone he doesn't even know, but he stamps it out quickly.

"So yeah," he says, "That got me pretty hard."

"Yeah?" Butters pulls away enough to look down at Kenny's crotch. "No kidding… how'd I do that?"

"There's something on the planet that apparently makes you come more than you already do," Kenny laughs a little. "I'm not even sure how that's possible."

Butters gives him what can only be termed a salacious looking grin back and leans in close to Kenny's ear.

"Maybe I'll show you sometime," he mutters, and Kenny honest to god whimpers. Butters only grins further and slides off the edge of the stage, moving so he's in between Kenny's legs. He undoes his fly and pulls Kenny's erection out of his underwear, giving Kenny an impish look before he sucks him into his mouth.

Butters always manages to get him in the weirdest places, too. The theater, an alleyway, the unisex handicapped bathroom in Country Kitchen Buffet… There's nowhere that's too strange for Butters, and Kenny actually doesn't mind it.

Plus, he's starting to last longer than he was a few weeks ago. Probably because Butters gives head like it's going out of style. Like, Kenny loves going down on girls—actually loves it—and for a while it was all he'd do. He wonders if Butters is the same, only with cock.

When Butters finishes, he hops back up on the stage and grabs the water bottle out of his backpack while Kenny does his pants up again. He swishes the water around in his mouth and swallows it back, offering Kenny a sheepish grin when he realizes he's being stared at.

"What?" he asks.

"Is it hard?" Kenny replies. "Sucking dick, I mean. Like, how difficult is it?"

"You met some of the people who suck dick?" Butters laughs a little. "Reckon it doesn't take too much brain power."

Kenny rolls his eyes, even though he can't quite wipe the smile off his face. Butters always leaves him incapacitated when it comes to his bad feelings. He thinks if his life was just a constant of Butters making him come, he'd never be sad again.

"I wanna try," he admits softly, and that's enough to stop Butters in his tracks. He's hard, Kenny can see it, and he's all pink in the face and looking to be at that point where he'd do just about anything anyone asked him to do.

"Suh-sucking me off?" Butters stammers, and Kenny nods. He does want to try it. Kind of badly, actually. When he sees Butters' dick, there's always this little part of him that wants to know what it'd be like to have him in his mouth. He pushes himself off the stage and goes to stand between Butters' legs, just like Butters had done to him. He draws his fingers over Butters' thighs, and looking up at him in earnest asks, "Can I?"

"Uh, yeah," Butters laughs, a little desperate and Kenny smiles. He likes getting Butters all riled up and horny—really likes it. He mirrors Butters' previous actions as best he can, undoing his pants and pulling him out of his underwear, and all that stuff. He kind of balks when he looks down and remembers that Butters is, uh… well, he's a little bigger than most. It's probably not a good training dick is all, but Kenny's up for the challenge.

Maybe.

"Uh," Kenny can't wipe the smile off his face. "Okay, this is happening."

"Kenny, you don't ha—" he seizes when Kenny runs the tip of his tongue gently through his slit. Kenny takes it as a good sign and ducks to take his head into his mouth, keeping his hand moving slowly on the bottom. It's weird—oh, it's so weird—but he thinks that he may like it. When Butters whines a little and runs his fingers through Kenny's hair, he knows beyond shadow of a doubt that yeah, he likes it a lot.

"Tha-that's good," Butters breathes, trying to be encouraging. Kenny nods, humming a little, because he has a dick, okay? He knows what feels good. It's not like the trial and error he went through when he was first going down on girls. He tries to conjure up memories of all the best blowjobs he's had and attempts to recreate them. It's probably clumsy as all fuck, but Butters is whining and pulling on his hair and Kenny is absolutely loving it.

And Butters appears to be just as into it. When Kenny has to pull back and catch his breath, Butters throws back his head and starts throwing around some pretty filthy words. Like, it doesn't surprise Kenny that Butters is a talker, but he's never heard Butters say half the words he's saying right now.

It doesn't take Butters long once Kenny gets back to it. Kenny's getting the hang of it too, starting to experiment with his tongue and sucking and it's apparently enough to get Butters bucking up and groaning like Kenny's killing him in the most pleasurable way possible. He's fucking up a little too hard though, and when he comes it kind of makes Kenny gag, and there ends up being way more come on his face than he ever thought there would be.

"Shit," Butters sighs, running his fingers through Kenny's hair still, entirely satisfied, like he's petting his prized hunting dog. He looks at Kenny's face and smiles, "You've got a little somethin'—" he points to a spot on his chin and laughs when Kenny sticks out his tongue and wipes his hands over his chin. Butters grabs his little travel pack of tissues out of his bag and hands one to Kenny.

"Dickhead," Kenny mutters and cleans himself up.

"Hey," Butters laughs, pretending to be a little offended, before he tucks himself back into his pants and goes back to playing with Kenny's hair. "Don't take this the wrong way," he says, "But you're real good at that."

Kenny shuts his eyes and chuckles a bit, heart thumping wildly when Butters returns the laugh and pulls Kenny into a kiss. They both taste like spunk, Kenny knows they do, but somehow that doesn't make him want to pull away and run. It's a good feeling, and he'll hang onto it for now, even if he can feel the bad lingering just under the surface.

Just as he gets to thinking that, oh god, he _enjoyed_ sucking someone's dick, Butters tugs him closer and wraps his legs around Kenny's middle. He's so fucking warm, and he smells kind of lemony and really clean, a little like Kenny would expect sunshine to smell.

Fuck, that was gay. That was super gay.

Not that standing here, letting Butters suck on his face is any less gay, but whatever.

"Can we do that again?" Butters asks softly.

"Right now?" Kenny raises an eyebrow, and Butters laughs, holding Kenny by the front of the shirt and resting their foreheads together. They don't say anything though, just sort of let each other come down from their highs and kiss each other until they remember that they have other things to do.

"Hey, can I have some of that water?" Kenny asks. Butters nods and Kenny takes a generous swig out of the cool metal bottle. He watches Butters stuff the magazines into his big hulking school books in an attempt to hide them from anyone who might poke around in his bag and swishes the water around in his mouth, like he'd seen Butters do.

He can't get the taste completely off his tongue, though. Like, no matter what he does, it's going to be there, constantly reminding him that, yeah, he did this. And there's no escaping it.

That kind of freaks him out.

"Hey, do you need me today?" Kenny asks and sets the bottle back on the stage. Butters frowns a little.

"Not explicitly," he says. "Why, you're not gonna come?"

"I mean," Kenny runs his tongue over his lips. They're all swollen, he can feel it. "If you don't need me, I was gonna go—" He falters.

"Kenny, are you all right?" Butters asks, concerned now.

"I'm fine," Kenny shakes his head and pulls back. "I'm just gonna go get some air. I'll be back."

Kenny doesn't wait for Butters to respond before he sort of just turns on his heel and all but runs out. He left his bag there, so he can't really leave school or anything, but he can make a few rounds of the school and stick it out until rehearsal starts.

When school lets out, it's like someone opened the floodgates. A swarm of students starts pouring out of the building, some chatting excitedly, others just hurrying on their way to the busses or their cars to get home. Kenny passes by the vending machines right by the student store and pauses—Stan's mulling over the variety of chips and cookies in the machine, bobbing his head to the music pouring out of his big-ass Boeing headphones. Kenny hasn't really talked to him… mostly because he's being his normal self and just avoiding the uncomfortable conversation that's bound to take place, but he knows he can't keep running away forever.

Stan's one of the people on the planet who knows him best, after all—Stan knows way too many incriminating things about Kenny to walk away from this friendship alive. Kenny taps him on the shoulder and gives a wry smile when Stan jumps at being disturbed.

"Oh, hey dude," Stan says and pushes his headphones down around his neck. "Haven't seen you in a while."

"I know," Kenny nods and pulls his hood back up over his head. He gets the feeling that his hair's all wild from Butters pulling on it and petting it.

"Hey, dude, I never got to apologize for throwing you under the bus a while ago," Stan shoves his hands in his pockets. "I pretty much got my ass chewed out by everyone after you left, and they were right. It was pretty fucked up, so… I'm sorry."

"I think I just sucked Butters' dick," Kenny somehow says instead of 'Apology accepted, bro', and Stan's eyes go wide.

"Seriously?" he asks, and Kenny can't do anything but nod his head. He's had a dick in his mouth—he's one of _those_ people now. "Dude, when did this happen?"

"If I tell you 'five minutes ago', do you promise not to judge me?" Kenny asks. Stan just nods his head and moves to grab Kenny by the shoulder.

"Are you okay, dude?" he raises his eyebrows, nodding to help Kenny along into an affirmative answer, but Kenny just shakes his head. "Did you not like it or something?"

"I did," Kenny replies hollowly. "That's the worst fucking part."

"Uh, I disagree, dude," Stan frowns as Kenny goes to sit on one of the benches nearby. "Liking it is the best part about sucking dick. 'Cause if you've gotta do something, you might as well like it."

Kenny lets out a choked sort of laugh and buries his face in his hands.

"Hey," Stan says and sits down beside him. "Dude, it's not the end of the world. I know your parents won't be thrilled, but who says they have to find out? You make it 'til you're eighteen and you move out. Home stretch, dude. And hey, if shit goes down, you can always live in Shelly's room if you need to. She won't care, she's at school."

Kenny just looks at Stan and blinks a few times. He's not sure what to think or what to say, and he doesn't know why, of anyone he's talked to today, Stan's the person that made him feel better. For once in his life, he just decides not to question it and lets it go. He wraps his arms around Stan's neck and gives him a hug, one of those ones that gets tighter and tighter as one person tries to suffocate the other.

"So, you and Butters," Stan says when he finally lets go.

"It's not anything, dude," Kenny rolls his eyes and stands. "We're just fooling around. It's not a big deal."

"I know," Stan nods, following suit, "I just think it's kinda funny."

"Why?" Kenny asks, cocking an eyebrow. Stan just shrugs, and Kenny doesn't like the stupid smile on his face. "Stan, why's it funny?"

Stan doesn't answer, and will probably keep that thought with him until the grave. He just gives Kenny a big smile and folds his arms.

"Man, it's gonna be nice to have someone else to talk to about this shit, man," Stan sighs and slings an arm over Kenny's shoulder. "Gary gets all squeamish about it, can't even _ask _me to suck his dick, so now I have to be a mind reader on top of everything else, and Butters doesn't know the meaning of shame, so he's useless… It'll be nice to have someone around who's as scared shitless as I am, you know?"

That, above anything else, makes Kenny smile the broadest.

* * *

**Hey, so this chapter got done really quickly. **

**Title of the chapter from My Chemical Romance's lyrical masterpiece _Teenagers_. **

**Happy Friday, everyone! **


	7. The Skeletons are Hidden in the Closet

**Chapter 7: The Skeletons are Hidden in the Closet**

It's a McCormick tradition to take a big hulking shit on the holiday season. It went from a semi-nice time of year when they were kids, when they'd all stop fighting for six or seven seconds and just focus on being a family and having each other. Then, of course, his parents both started drinking more, started fighting more, and suddenly holidays became Kevin, Kenny, and Karen eating canned soup and green beans up in Karen's room, or opening gifts and falling into arguments themselves.

Now that they're all older, they're obviously entirely disillusioned. Kenny's come to terms with the fact that he'll never have a perfect Norman Rockwell family or holiday season, but there's something about this year that makes him want to celebrate… though it could just be that he's in a ridiculously good mood the more that he fucks around with Butters.

It's starting to be a little fun, actually—sneaking around, trying not to get caught, getting Butters panting and breathless against him (because he's getting more and more stressed out with applying to college and stuff that it's kind of nice to be able to touch him or suck him down and get him to forget for a bit).

The holidays are getting them both kind of down, though, so they haven't found it in themselves to fool around. Probably just as well, considering there was an awkward interception at home the other day that almost ended in Kenny handing Kevin one of Butters' magazines instead of the copy of Sports Illustrated he'd lifted from the gas station.

That had been an awkward moment to sidestep, but Kenny thought he'd handled it well until last night when Kevin caught him staring a little too long at Christian Bale while they'd been watching the Dark Knight and very frankly said, "Maybe you really are a faggot after all."

"What'd you say?" Butters asks. He's perched upon a giant ladder, hanging Christmas lights from the tip top of his roof, because he absolutely refused to let Kenny go up there and do it himself. It's the Saturday after Thanksgiving and in typical Stotch fashion, they have to be the first people in town to put up their Christmas lights.

"What the hell do you say to something like that?" Kenny returns, holding the ladder fast. "I socked him on the shoulder, he punched me in the nads, we finished the movie and went to bed."

"Yikes," Butters hisses through his teeth. "How're your boys doin'?"

"Pretty fucking shitty, Butters!" Kenny calls up to him. He gets a little sick just thinking about it. He'd spent a good fifteen minutes on the floor, incapacitated and hoping he'd at least still be able to blow a load when he recovered.

Butters just sighs and climbs down, gracefully and not at all in trouble of falling like Kenny is every time he gets on something higher than two feet off the ground. He plants his feet on the ground and takes a few steps back, admiring his handiwork. They're not an impressively crafted display, but they're neat and simple and just about what you'd expect from the Stotches.

"Y'know," Butters says, hands on his hips as he squints at the lights. "Sometimes when people say awful things, they're really just tryin' to reach out to you, an' they just don't know how to do it properly."

Kenny scoffs, "Yeah, Butters, that's what Kevin's doing." Butters doesn't seem to be in the mood for his sarcasm, though, just looks over at him and raises his eyebrows.

"I got a laundry list of awful things you said to me over the years, buster," he says frankly. "Now look at yourself."

Kenny scowls a little at this, but okay, Butters has a point.

"Are you telling me that my brother actually wants to suck my dick?" he poses, though, just to see the look on Butters' face.

Butters smirks and gives a half-hearted little shrug, "Can't say I'd blame him." He laughs even harder when Kenny gives him a shove and loudly proclaims his perversions to whomever on the street might be listening in.

"Jerk," Butters mutters through a little pout that makes Kenny grin and elbow him lightly in the side. "Heck, I reckon more than half the people I've messed around with have been right awful to me at some point or another. People bein' awful usually just means they're scared."

"Everyone's awful to you, though," Kenny points out very frankly.

Butters just shrugs, "Eh, maybe everyone's a little scared."

This gives Kenny a little pause as he watches Butters heave a little sigh and start whistling as he folds up the ladder. It's starting to occur to Kenny more and more that most people are just as awful to Butters as they always were—maybe not outright, but even Wendy's called him an idiot on more than one occasion.

"Dude," Kenny shakes his head as he lights a cigarette. "How have you not just gotten a gun and shot everyone?"

Butters laughs a little, like Kenny couldn't have suggested anything more ridiculous.

"Why would I do that?" he cocks his head, and Kenny just shrugs.

"Everyone treats you like shit," he says and puts his free hand through his hair. "I mean, how do you get through that without wanting to destroy everyone?" Kenny's had his own wild fantasies of how his own fight scene might play out—had his own fight songs picked out for several of the scenarios he's cooked up.

Butters' shoulders drop, right along with his smile. He looks spooked, white as a sheet as his mouth starts trying to stammer out words. Nothing wants to come out, as it seems. Kenny watches this for a moment with his eyebrows raised, before he asks, "Jesus, you have thought about it, haven't you?"

"Wh—no!" Butters exclaims.

"Dude, I'm not saying you have a plan laid out or any—"

"Kenny, why would I think about killin' people who are mean to me?" Butters practically shouts. "That's sociopath stuff."

"Dude, it's natural to be angry at people who treat you like shit," Kenny shrugs. "You think I haven't thought about putting a bullet through my dick brother's skull at least once?"

"Well, Kevin's just a right asshole," Butters concedes. "E-everyone's always made fun of me, though. Reckon I'm just used to it… i-it's kinda funny, though, huh?"

"What?" Kenny asks and takes a long drag of his cigarette.

"That the worst thing a kid could do is just want a friend," he says and goes to carry the ladder back into the garage. Kenny follows him, frowning as he takes another drag, and moves to help Butters hang the ladder back on the far wall. He follows Butters back into the house, stamping his cigarette out on the concrete floor before shutting the door and watching as Butters pours himself a glass of water from the filter in the fridge.

He looks a little shaken, but Kenny can't help but realize just how handsome Butters has become. He's always got this big smile on his face that makes him look kind of dorky, but now, even though he's visibly riled, he's got a really nice face.

"Kids are fucked up," Kenny just says. "You've got friends now, right? Like, what's that Dr. Seuss quote… 'People who mind don't matter and whoever matters won't mind' or something?"

From the way Butters is laughing, Kenny figures he probably just botched the fuck out of whatever he was trying to say. He just shrugs, "You know what I mean."

"Yeah," Butters nods, smiling still as he rubs at his neck. "What're you s'posed to do when everyone minds, though?"

Kenny stops at that, and suddenly a heavy silence falls between them. Butters is smashing his knuckles together and looking down at his feet, shoulders all curled in on themselves and spine all bent out of shape. It makes Kenny's chest hurt, and he's overcome by the resounding feeling that Butters probably isn't as impervious to everyone's shit as either of them would like to think.

"Dude," Kenny rasps out a little and steps forward. "Dude, people are dicks. You're awesome, okay? Like, by far one of the most awesome people I know. People are fucking awful to you and you're somehow just so _nice_ back. I don't know how you do it without, like, exploding or something."

"Ah," Butters shakes his head and fists his hands in the hair growing out right above his ears. "Ca-can we maybe not talk about this anymore?" He shuts his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, somehow making himself impossibly smaller. Without even thinking, Kenny reaches out and brings him into a hug.

Except, Butters doesn't hug back, just tucks his arms up between their chests and buries his face in Kenny's neck, and just like that Kenny realizes that—fuck—he's _holding_ him now.

Because he wants Butters to feel okay, to know that Kenny knows how hard this must suck, to know how much he wants Butters to feel okay again, and sucking his dick seems wildly inappropriate at the moment.

They stay there like that for a few moments before Butters pulls away, wiping at his eyes, though there's no evidence that he's been crying, and giving Kenny a resigned smile.

"I'm kinda sleepy," he says. "Wanna go upstairs and take a nap?"

Kenny's taken aback by that. He doesn't nap, usually, unless he's so high or drunk that he can't keep his eyelids up. And napping with someone sounds very strangely intimate for Kenny's tastes, but he doesn't think he could justifiably say 'no' to Butters right now. He just nods and lets Butters pull him up to his room. They kick off their shoes and shift onto the bed, Butters actually curling up for a nap while Kenny sort of just stretches out and tries to relax on a nice, comfy bed that smells like Butters.

When he wakes up, it's visibly later in the afternoon.

"What the fuck?" he mutters and shifts. He's not at all where he (thinks he) fell asleep—instead of flat on his back, he's curled up against Butters, tucked neatly against his chest which, like the rest of him, is hideously warm. Butters' arms are wrapped around him too, firm and strong and making Kenny feel way nicer than they should.

"You awake?" Butters asks softly.

"Yeah," Kenny yawns and gives an involuntary whine. "Fuck, how long were we out?"

"Eh, two hours, probably," Butters yawns back. "Never woulda pegged you as a cuddler."

"I'm not," Kenny mumbles into Butters' chest. "I don't cuddle, that's lame. You're just really warm and the window is open."

It's a feeble excuse, but Kenny sticks to it, in spite of the fact that he knows Butters doesn't buy it. Butters' laugh is all lazy and thick with sleep, and when he tightens his grip around Kenny's shoulders and ducks to kiss him on the cheek, Kenny feels his toes curl. He shifts so that he's laying on top of Butters, and cupping his face in his hands, brings him into a slow, intensely satisfying kiss—one that gets Butters to let out a little whimper and unzip Kenny's sweater.

And Kenny lets him. He lets Butters rid him of his layers, first the sweater, then his shirt, and is hit by a cold gust of wind passing by the window that makes him break out in goose bumps. Butters sits up and moves so he can shut the window, before he turns his attention to Kenny.

"Oh wow," Butters says softly and reaches out to touch just below Kenny's ribs. He's got little bruises all over (because on top of the whole immortality thing, he also happens to bruise like a peach), but the biggest one is right under Butters' fingers. "What happened?" Butters asks, but then amends, "Aw jeez, look at me bein' all nosy. You don't have to tell me if you don't want."

"Dude," Kenny laughs a little, shifting so he's sitting on Butters' lap a little more comfortably. "It's okay. Most of these are me being a spaz and running into shit. I bruise really easily. Apparently I am a delicate flower."

This makes Butters laugh, which is good because Kenny doesn't feel like going into how most of these are from him and Kevin scrapping, or how the one Butters is still brushing with his fingers is from the other day, when Kenny got in the middle of the annual Thanksgiving drunken shouting match and his dad threw him into the coffee table.

Granted, he should have known better than to come downstairs for some jell-o before his parents had passed out, so the bruise is really just a mark of his own stupidity on that front.

"You're real skinny," Butters says then, dragging his fingers over Kenny's ribs now. It feels nice, having Butters touch him like this, mapping him out and memorizing him. It sends heat all over Kenny's skin and makes his cock stir with anticipation.

"You should've seen before—" his breath hitches when Butters's fingers skate lightly over his nipples. "Dude, I shovel pizza into my face just so I'll stop looking like the walking dead."

Butters smiles and kisses Kenny lightly on his neck.

"I got enough pumpkin pie to last me a lifetime downstairs," he murmurs against Kenny's skin. "Want some?"

"Seriously?" Kenny asks, pulling back just a bit to look at Butters. "I got boned out of getting pie this year. I mean, not like we have it every year or anything like that… I usually steal Stan's or Kyle's, but they didn't have any when I asked yesterday."

"Kenny, I have a whole pie in my freezer that is yours," Butters looks at him very seriously. "My parents'll make me eat it all by myself if I don't find someone who wants it."

"What?" Kenny asks.

"O-oh, I accidentally made an extra," Butters says. "A-an' I wouldn't throw it away, so they told me I had to eat it, a-an' that no one gets to help me."

Kenny blinks a few times before he just laughs and covers his face with his hand, "Your parents are so fucking weird."

"Tell me about it," Butters laughs a little. Then they're kissing again, and somehow amidst the increasingly frantic kisses and the little noises of appreciation, Butters loses his shirt too. Kenny pulls away at this, needing to admire for a moment. Butters' arms are nice and toned, and his chest is too. He's still got some baby fat in certain places, especially in his face, but Kenny still finds his mouth all dry and heart all slamming against his chest.

"You're hot," Kenny whispers in Butters' ear, like he's telling a secret. Hell, he kind of feels like it is… at least, the fact that he thinks Butters is hot is.

"Oh, jeez," Butters pulls away and laughs a little. "Kenny, you're makin' me blush."

"Why?" Kenny asks, brushing at Butters' hair with his fingertips. "You are, dude."

"Kenny, I'm already foolin' around with you," Butters shakes his head, nosing at Kenny's neck. "You don't need to charm your way into my pants, y'know."

Kenny frowns and pulls back to look at Butters. How—does he not think he's good-looking? Kenny's not exactly sure of how that's possible, all things considered, and he's about to say something about it too, but there's a sudden commotion downstairs and Butters' eyes go big.

"Shit," he mutters and looks over at the clock. He all but throws Kenny off of him as he scrambles to get back into his shirt. "My parents are home. Shit-shit-_shit_…" Kenny mobilizes quickly and pulls on his clothes and boots. Butters is looking at him with some sort of foreign look in his eyes that makes Kenny shrug.

"What?" he asks as he goes to pull the window open again. Butters comes forward and kisses him, firm and deliberate.

"I'll see you later," he says softly. Kenny nods, and like that he's scaling down the side of Butters' house. He's not sure where he's going to go or what he's going to do, since he's all full of semi-good feelings still from being kissed and held and there's no way in hell he's ruining that by going home… He pulls out his phone and texts Stan, '_coming over be there in 5_'.

He makes the quick walk over to Stan's and opens up the front door without even knocking. He still knocks at Kyle's usually, but only because he feels like Sheila will give him a lecture about being rude, even if she's told him a thousand times that he doesn't need to knock. Sharon's always had a soft spot for Kenny, always invited him over to dinner more than she did any of the other boys, always makes sure he's all bundled up properly when he spends the night or leaves the house when it's particularly cold outside.

Even now she's working on a crossword puzzle while she watches the news when Kenny walks in. She looks up at him over the tops of her glasses and smiles.

"Hi there, sweetheart," she says. "The rest of your motley crew is in the basement. Would you like something to eat before you go down there? I made them some sandwiches, and I think I had one leftover."

"You just happened to have one leftover?" he asks through a smile, and Sharon gives him a little smile back as she stands and walks into the kitchen.

"Such a habit I have," she says, shaking her head at herself as she hands Kenny a teetering sandwich on a plate. "Making four sandwiches instead of three. What's wrong with me?"

Kenny beams and gives her a hug before taking the plate down to the basement. Kyle and Cartman are playing Call of Duty while Stan sits on the couch, laptop perched on his knees as he types and smiles. Kenny comes to sit beside him and takes a big bite out of his sandwich.

"I thought facebook was lame," Kenny says as he looks over Stan's shoulder. He's chatting with Gary, and after catching a glimpse of the word 'cock', Kenny gathers it's not something meant for his eyes.

"Stanley, you devil," he puts a scandalized hand over his heart. "Who would've thought such dirty thoughts ran through that head of yours."

Stan just shakes his head, typing still. "Man, those AP classes are really improving your rhetoric, aren't they," Stan deadpans.

"Eh, you fuckers are the only people who appreciate my wit," Kenny shrugs and keeps eating. He doesn't bother Cartman and Kyle—they're too caught up in their game to talk to him anyway. After a few minutes, Stan sets his laptop aside and runs his fingers through his hair.

"So, what did you get up to today on this lovely Saturday?" Stan asks. "Little bit of yardwork, maybe?"

Kenny flips him off and keeps chewing at his sandwich, letting silence fall between them. He's still got a few good feelings in his chest, and this sandwich is quickly inspiring more of them. He watches as Cartman and Kyle launch into a full scale verbal attack on each other as they keep playing, happy that out of everything in his life, this is at least the same.

"Stanley," Sharon's voice comes from the top of the stairs.

"Yeah?" Stan calls back.

"Your Aunt Charlotte is on the phone, she wants to talk to you," Sharon says.

"What the hell? About what?"

"Oh, I don't know, Stanley," comes Sharon's sarcastic reply. "Maybe it's because she lives five minutes away from your first choice college. Get up here, now please."

Stan lets out a loud groan before he melts off the couch and slinks up the stairs. When they hear the door shut, Kenny almost jumps at how fast Kyle pauses the game ("Hey, what the fuck, you butt reaming asshole?") and flies over to Stan's computer.

"Whoa there, sparky," Kenny curls into himself, trying to use his body to cover what's left of his sandwich. Kyle just wordlessly brings up Stan's facebook again while Cartman and Kenny stare at him. He scans over a few things before pulling a face and shoving the computer back off to the side.

"Dear fucking _god_," Kyle retches. Cartman grabs the computer before Kenny can put it together, and he starts belly laughing. When Kyle immediately rolls his eyes and starts rummaging around under the couch for Stan's hidden stash of booze, Kenny suddenly gets the feeling that he's missing something."

"Uh," Kenny begins as Kyle opens a bottle of whiskey and takes a few large gulps. "Isn't booze bad for diabetic people." It's not a question, but a statement of fact… just in case Kyle forgot. With the way Kyle's face is all screwed up, Kenny thinks he probably remembers.

"Let the poor girl drink her sorrows away," Cartman scoffs and tosses Kyle's controller to Kenny. Kenny lets it hit him in the chest as he looks over at Kyle.

"What's he talking about?" he asks, but Kyle just shakes his head.

"Jesus Christ, Kenny, Kyle's in love with Stan, now nut up and play me."

"I am not!" Kyle shouts back, scowling. Cartman just looks at Kenny and pulls a face.

"Aw, isn't it cute, Kenny?" he asks. "She's shy."

"Shut the fuck up, fatass!" Kyle snaps. Kenny's not sure if it's the alcohol, or if Kyle just really hasn't yet learned that the more you yell at him, the more you fuel Cartman's ineffable desire to piss you off. Kyle turns around completely this time, resting his forearms on the little table in front of the couch, and gives Kyle a pout.

"What's wrong, Kyle?" he asks. "You don't like that Stan's all up on Donny and Marie?"

"Whoa, wait," Kenny sits forward and puts his sandwich on the floor. "You two knew about that? Stan said he hadn't told—"

"Stan told you?" Kyle scowls, looking a little like Kenny just caught him in bed with his wife. Kenny holds his hands up in a pacifying gesture, not really a fan of how his insides are starting to twist up with nerves.

"I walked in on them," he says. "No one told me. They haven't told anyone."

Kyle just shuts his eyes and rubs his hands over his face, shaking his head like he doesn't want to believe this is happening. He's spent the better part of the last seven or eight years trying to convince everyone that he's not gay, especially after the whole Nichole fiasco in the fifth grade. The fact that he hangs out with Cartman so much (an unhappy coincidence, Kyle likes to remind everyone) doesn't really help these matters, but he's pretty sure that the fact that no one believes him is why he can't ever get a girlfriend.

Apparently, him being pretty goofy looking and apparently in love with his very male best friend aren't factors in this at all.

"I swear, there's something in the water in this town," Kenny just shakes his head, which gets Cartman looking at him kind of funny, like he's about to say something, but Kyle gets there first.

"I'm not—" he tries to interject, but he shakes his head and crosses his arms over her chest. "I just don't like Gary, okay? I have an abject distrust of people who are that nice… and who don't swear. It's not natural."

Cartman scoffs, "I think you have an abject distrust of people who are sucking Stan's dick."

Kyle scowls and throws a pillow at Cartman's face. They then hear the door at the top of the stairs open again and scramble to get back into their original positions. By the time Stan comes back down, Cartman and Kyle are back to playing—Kyle a little more clumsily than before—and Kenny's polishing off his food. Stan flops back down next to Kenny, a glass of Coke in his hand, and sees the whiskey and his computer sitting on the table together.

"Hey, who started the party without me?" Stan asks, gulping down a portion of his soda so he can replace it with the liquor. He takes a sip, much too satisfied by it, and Kenny draws his legs to his chest and tries to keep quiet. There's something about him that's bursting at the seams with this new information, though he suspects it's so Cartman won't ask Kenny about what's got _him_ acting so queer… funny. Whatever.

"Hmm," Stan frowns a little when he checks his computer. "Still nothing. Says he saw the message."

"Man, I don't like that feature," Kenny shakes his head. "I feel like the internet is ratting on me for not answering someone's inane bullshit."

Stan gives him a look before laughing a little and offering Kenny his drink. Kenny shakes his head and stares at the TV—no telling what'll come out of his mouth if he puts alcohol in his body right now. Silence passes between them for a short while before Stan shuts his computer and puts his drink on the table, shoving Cartman out of the way so he can play. This of course, gets Cartman to throwing a hissy fit and leaving. This loosens Kenny up considerably, leading him to taking a swig off of Stan's drink.

"Hey, top it off if you're gonna take some," Stan says, mashing his thumb into the controller. Kenny gives him a salute, even though he's not looking, and gradually replaces whatever sips he takes with more whiskey. It's not the greatest thing, but it gets you really fucked up without you even realizing.

Then the door to the basement opens and shuts again, followed soon by heavy footfalls. Stan pauses the game, ready for Cartman to come back in and launch into a full tirade about how they're all assholes and how they never treat him fairly, but it's not Cartman.

It's Gary.

Gary, who looks all red-eyed and frayed at the edges.

"Hey, dude," Stan greets him carefully, frowning just a little bit. "What're you doing here?"

Gary doesn't respond right away, just goes to sit on the couch beside Kenny. He eyes the glass beside Stan's computer and points at it.

"Is there alcohol in that?" he asks.

"Yeah," Kenny nods, eyes going big as Gary reaches for it, "But it's mostly hard alcohol, don—okay."

Gary tips it back and downs most of the glass. Stan, Kenny, and Kyle all watch him intently as he makes a face and puts the glass back on the table.

"That was disgusting," Gary mutters.

"That was also mostly whiskey," Kenny says. "You're probably gonna be a little fucked up here in a minute."

"Dude, what the hell was that?" Stan asks. "Are you okay?"

"No, Stan, I'm—gosh, I'm warm," Gary frowns and touches his face. "I'm warm, is that normal? I don't like this."

Stan gets up and sits down beside Gary. "Dude, what happened?" he asks a little more firmly this time.

"Oh man," Gary whines and leans forward a little. "My mom found out, Stan."

Stan stops at this, completely petrified while Gary curls forward and touches his forehead to his knees. Kyle even stops the game again, gathering that this is more serious than a petty pityfest. He looks behind him, first at Kenny, then at Stan.

"How?" Stan asks softly after a while, bringing his hand up to rub Gary's back.

"I left the computer to help my sister with her homework really quick," Gary mumbles, sounding a little nauseated. "I came back and she was reading my messages. I forgot to get out of my account, and she—" he hiccups. "She just started yelling at me, Stan. And I couldn't say anything. I just let her. I just stood there and let her pack a bag for me. She threw me out, Stan."

"Jesus Christ!" Stan yelps, and Gary grabs his ears.

"Oh man, I think I'm gonna be sick," he mutters, and like that takes off in a mad dash for the bathroom. Stan gets to his feet quickly and looks back at Kyle and Kenny. He runs a shaky hand through his hair.

"Hey, I'm really sorry, guys, but," he takes a breath and swallows back a lump in his throat. "Maybe you guys should go? He seems pretty upset."

"You think?" Kyle raises an eyebrow, but stands all the same. He's visibly stiff, like he's afraid he'll give too much away if he dares give himself any leeway. "Take care, man," he says and gives Stan an awkward clap on the back, before turning to Kenny. "Walk with you?"

This snaps Kenny back into himself, jarring him back into reality with an electric sort of awareness that makes his limbs feel heavy and his heart feel like it's about to explode.

Not that Gary and Stan were probably as careful as they should have been, but fuck. They got caught. Or, Gary did, at least.

"Kenny!" Kyle snaps, and Kenny gets to standing. He tells Stan goodbye and trudges up the stairs and out the door. It's nighttime now, and it's cold enough for Kenny to justify putting up his hood and shutting it almost completely.

"Man, can you believe that shit?" Kyle asks. "I mean, I don't like the guy, but goddamn. Could you imagine a parent doing that to their kid? Mormons are all sorts of fucked up, dude."

Kenny doesn't reply any further than a hum. He could only imagine what would happen if his dad saw the sorts of things he thought about doing to Butters, let alone any written evidence of it. Getting his ass kicked is probably the least of his worries, because depending on his blood alcohol content and what sorts of objects were around for Kenny to knock into as collateral damage, he'd probably get it bad enough to just come back with a new body. His dad knows that, though. No, Stuart would fuck him up just enough so that he's worse for the wear, and then kick his ass to the curb.

"You okay?" Kyle asks.

Kenny shakes his head, "Fine, dude."

They get to Kyle's house not soon after, where Kenny sees him off with a salute before continuing on.

He'd almost gotten caught with Butters, hadn't he? His parents had just gotten home, right when Kenny and Butters were about to get into… well, into whatever. What if they'd already been going at it? What would've happened then? Butters back at that gay correctional facility, probably, and Kenny on the couch, facing his parents, trying to talk his way around of being found with a dick in his mouth.

When Kenny gets home, it's just his dad on the couch, bottle clutched loosely in his hand and cap tipped low over his eyes. If Kenny didn't know any better, or see his stomach moving, he'd have assumed the worst. He quietly tiptoes past the couch and up the stairs, avoiding most of the squeaky boards and shuts himself in his room.

Kenny digs around in his dresser for his weed and his pipe, figuring he's earned this after the day he's had. He takes a drag just as he hears the truck roll up outside, holding it for as long as possible, just in case Kevin decides to come in and talk to him. Sure enough, Kenny hears Kevin's heavy trodding up the steps, followed by a quick knock on his door, and Stuart shouting at them to "Shut the goddamned fucking fuck up".

"Ken, open up," Kevin says. Kenny grunts and rolls to his feet, pipe still in hand as he goes to open his door.

"What," Kenny demands more than asks. Kevin pushes his way in the room, shedding his coat on the floor and grabbing the pipe out of Kenny's hands, taking a long drag off the end.

"So, I'm working a few streets up, repaving that pot hole, right?" he begins. Kenny blinks a few times before shaking his head.

"Sure, Kevin," he replies, waving a hand so Kevin will just keep talking.

"It's right in front of that weird-ass Mormon family's house, right?" Kevin plops down on Kenny's bed. Kenny's gut drops. _Oh no_… "Shit turns into a shouting match inside the house all of a sudden," Kevin continues, unaffected by Kenny's sudden change in demeanor. "It fucking ends with your buddy leaving the house, crying like a little bitch. He's a fucking faggot, dude, for real. Heard his mom say it and everything. You… You got your ass kicked by a butt-reaming queer."

Kenny hides his face in his hands, "God fucking damn it, Kevin."

"I know!" Kevin exclaims. "You think I like that my little brother can't hold his own against a cocksucking fairy? It's embarrassing."

"Kevin, shut up," Kenny pleads, too tired to hear where the rest of this is going.

"Good news, though," Kevin shrugs, handing Kenny back the pipe as he stands. "Gives us a chance for a little heterosexual male bonding. You and me, let's go kick his ass."

Kenny blinks again, this time entirely uncertain that he's hearing this correctly.

"What now?"

"You and me," Kevin nods, smiling like the fucking oaf that he is. "Let's find him and restore your good name."

"Uh, have you seen our lives, Kevin?" Kenny gestures to his pit of a room. "It's not a great name to begin with."

"Man, what the fuck is with you?" Kevin scowls and gives Kenny a shove. "You've been acting really fuckin' weird lately, man."

Kenny looks at him for a second before giving a laugh and shaking his head. "You're insane," he says.

"No way," Kevin shakes his head, putting one of his atrociously large paws against Kenny's chest and backing him up against his door. "I'm trying to be nice to you, and all you're doing is giving me shit. That's no way to treat a brother."

He jabs Kenny in the ribs, even smiles a little when Kenny screws his eyes shut and grunts. Right in the bruise. Kevin's like a drug sniffing German Shepherd when it comes to these things.

"You don't laugh at any of my jokes," Kevin continues.

"Your jokes aren't that funny, Kev," Kenny says very plainly, even though he knows it'll get him another jab.

"You've got that goony fucking smile on your face all the time," Kevin points out, "but if you were nailing someone, you would've told me. Right?"

Kenny nods.

"Then maybe," Kevin continues, "Your friends are getting a bit of their fairy dust on you. That's who you hang out with, right? All your little faggot friends… you always have. They're so smart and so nice, good people… that's what you always say about them, right? Little did you know, they'd have you sucking the AIDS right out of their dicks as soon as you let them."

"Get the fuck off me, Kevin!" Kenny shouts, head-butting him when all other attempts to squirm away fail. Kevin reels back, holding his forehead and wincing as Kenny rubs at his own. "No one's sucking anyone's cock, okay? I'm not a fucking faggot, Jesus Christ."

Kenny doesn't even realize the words flew out of his mouth until Kevin looks at him, nodding.

"I know, man," he says, standing up a little straighter. "Man, I know that. You're too good to get sucked into that shit. And hey, those Mormons may be fucking weirdoes, but at least they got that shit out of the house, y'know? Keeping it around only makes it spread."

"I'm pretty sure that's not true, Kevin," Kenny pants a bit, still catching his breath. This is the most humanely Kevin has acted toward him in a very long time. It's kind of nice, actually. Not that he likes Kevin as a person, but they are brothers.

"Whatever, man," Kevin shakes his head. "Hey, if you're not gonna kick his ass with me, you wanna see if I can sneak you into a titty bar? Saturday night, you know it'll be a good line-up."

Kenny's not sure what possesses him to say yes, but he finds him in the truck all the same, blasting some CCR with the windows down and singing along with Kevin, whose voice isn't as bad as his demeanor and personality would lead you to believe. Maybe it was seeing how down and out dejected Gary looked, or maybe it's knowing the exact same thing would happen to him if he wasn't careful.

The thing is, though, the more that he's around Butters, the less and less careful he gets.

He pulls out his phone, bringing up a message to Butters.

_'we cant fuck around nemore. srry. see u school' _

He turns off his phone entirely and shoves it back in his pocket, smiling and singing along with Kevin, even though all the good feelings are gone, and his chest is now left vacant and hollow.

* * *

**Wow, this chapter took a while to get out. Sorry about that, but life got in the way and is kind of refusing not to be a pain in the ass right now. I'm in the home stretch, almost done with school, so my time will be significantly more occupied over the next few weeks. I'm going to try to keep up with this story as best as I can, though. **

**Thank you to all who read and review and all. I appreciate the hell out of it, and your kind words really to give me a case of the warm fuzzies. **

**Chapter title comes from the song _Private Life_ by _Oingo Boingo_. It really does encompass a lot of Kenny feels for this story, so if you have the time, it's definitely worth a listen. **

**Have a great holiday weekend, everyone!**


	8. The Walls Came Tumbling Down

**Chapter 8: The Walls Came Tumbling Down**

It hadn't been anything. They'd just been goofing off, messaging each other stupid junk back and forth, when suddenly Stan had started typing some… _unsavory_ things.

Not that Gary minds—well, not anymore. The first time Stan had told him what he wanted to do to him, Gary nearly had a heart attack; now that he's used to it, he kind of likes it. Certain things still make him blush, but knowing what he does to Stan is actually kind of thrilling.

He'd left his computer to lock himself in the bathroom, thinking his parents were out (why on earth would he have let Stan take it as far as he did if he'd thought anyone was _home_?), admittedly so he could, uh… _take care of it_. His situation. In the… pants region.

Jerk off.

Ugh, he's never liked the way that phrase sounds.

When he got back, he saw his mom looking at his computer and it all sort of exploded from there. Harsh things were said, things Gary didn't know a mother was capable of saying to her child, and now he's never allowed back in his house with his family ever again.

"Hey," comes Stan's voice from the door. Even after throwing up a few times, he's still feeling a little woozy and tipsy and sick. He will never understand how Stan can drink such gastronomic amounts of liquor—this stuff is awful. The curtains are drawn shut, the heater is blasting, and Gary is wrapped in a mess of blankets that all smell like Stan.

It makes his chest hurt.

"Gary," Stan tries again, coming further into the room. "My mom made some food. She made noodles and some chicken parmesan. You like that, right?"

Gary stamps out the little flare of irritation at the fact that he just got excommunicated from his family, his church, his _life_ for a guy who doesn't even know his dietary preferences. Stan's just trying to be helpful, and, after all, whatever is wafting up from downstairs does smell delicious.

"Sure," he says.

"You've gotta come down and eat it, though," Stan continues. "Ever since I found a dead rat in an old Sonic bag under my bed, I'm not allowed to eat up here."

"That's disgusting, Stan," Gary replies softly, grimacing under the covers.

"Stanley Randall Marsh!" Sharon calls up the stairs. "The rule is that _you're_ not allowed to eat in your room. For Pete's sake, Gary has just been through a trauma, he can eat on the roof if it'll make him feel better."

Gary doesn't have it in him to laugh, not even to smile, even when Stan calls back down to her, "This is America, not a fascist dictatorship" and comes to sit beside him on the bed. Nothing. Gary doesn't think he feels anything.

That scares him.

"Hey," Stan says again, softer this time as he runs his hands over Gary's hair. Normally, he keeps it pretty well-groomed, to the point where he doesn't like Stan to touch it or mess it up, but it's actually sort of nice right now. Especially how Stan bends down and kisses him softly on the jaw when he does it.

"If you want, I'll bring you up a plate," Stan murmurs into his ear. "Or if you want me to fuck off, I'll do that too. Anything you want, dude."

And just like that, Gary pulls the covers over his head and starts to cry.

"Oh, shit," Stan says softly. "Gary… baby, don't cry."

This makes Gary cry harder. There's hardly a moment when Stan's not impressively vulgar—if he's saying sweet things, the situation is worse than Gary is letting himself believe. He feels Stan pull the blankets off of his face and stroke his red, tear-stained cheek.

"I messed everything up, Stan," Gary hiccups as Stan shakes his head and stretches out beside him, attempting to hold him close through the layers separating them. "What if they never talk to me again? I could miss my sister's wedding, I could miss my siblings growing up… they're the people I love, Stan, the people I care the most about on the planet. And they want absolutely nothing to do with me."

Stan doesn't say anything, just noses at Gary's temple and hugs him closer. Gary sighs—he appreciates that Stan's the kind of guy who'll let you talk at him. There's nothing he could say or do right now that would make everything all better, anyway.

He messed up. He wasn't careful about what he was doing and now he has to suffer the consequences. That's how life works.

"Maybe you could tell them you had a religious experience in the woods or something," Stan suggests after a few minutes of silence.

"That would be lying, Stanley," Gary replies very frankly. "I know you're trying to help, but… I made my bed. Now I have to lie in it."

Stan is quiet for a moment before he shifts around a bit and gives a facetious, "Well, technically, it's my bed," and kisses Gary on the nose.

Oddly enough, it makes Gary feel a little better—it even gets him to smile a little bit.

"Hey, I got you to smile," Stan beams, wicking away Gary's tears with his thumb. "Not to drop a pride bomb all up in here, but damn, I'm good."

Gary rolls his eyes at this, but he's not crying anymore. That's saying something.

"Man, maybe that's it," Gary sighs. "I got too cocky."

"Oh, right," Stan says and settles back onto the bed, one arm slung around Gary's shoulder as he leans their heads together. "You can say 'cocky' just fine, but 'suck my cock' might as well be Russian."

Gary jabs him in the side with his elbow.

"Now's not the time, Stanley," he warns, a little stuffed up from crying too much. Stan sighs and nods, bringing a hand into Gary's hair and stroking over it all too lovingly for his sensibilities right now. It makes his heart hurt even more than it already does.

"I thought I was hiding it so well," Gary whines and puts his face in his hands.

"I don't know why," Stan shakes his head back. "We weren't subtle at _all_. We've had an inordinate amount of people walk in on us since we started this."

Gary frowns, about to retort, but then he actually thinks about it for a second and realizes that, wow, Stan is right. They frequently make out in semi-public places—Gary even went down on Stan in the school bathroom on Halloween when he saw his Indiana Jones costume (this boy can rock five o'clock shadow and a fedora like no other)—and then _cybersex_? Written evidence?

"Stan," he moans and shuts his eyes. "Stan, did I want my family to find out?"

"I don't know," Stan shrugs helpfully. "It was weighing on you pretty heavily, dude. Remember you almost kissed me goodbye when I left game night the other week?"

Gary screws his eyes shut and, in a moment of complete and utter despair, utters "Fuck me sideways."

Stan gasps, pretending to be scandalized, "That sounds like a whole dollar for the swear jar."

"Stan," Gary moans. He is having a crisis; he can't be dealing with the smart-alecky dweeb he calls a friend right now. He needs his sweet friend, the one who calls him 'baby' and holds him and gives him kisses when he needs a little extra pep. "Stan, what if I just… What if I knew that my parents were in the house? And I left the window up? I usually minimize everything, even when I'm doing normal stuff."

Stan looks at him then and shrugs—again, helpful.

"Gary, I don't know," Stan finally concedes. "You don't talk to me about what's bugging you, how am I supposed to know?"

Gary looks at Stan. He's right—the boy doesn't get to be too often, but when he's right, he's right. Gary lets his eyes slip shut and rolls over to bury himself in Stan's arms. Stan has nice arms and he gives really good hugs.

He cuddles even better.

"I'm sorry," Gary says softly.

"Why?" Stan asks softly and hugs Gary closer, kissing him on the top of his head. Gary looks up, about to say something when Sharon appears in the doorway. She raises her eyebrows and folds her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorway as she gives them an incriminating once-over. Gary immediately scrambles away from Stan and sits up to adjust himself. Sharon just gives him a smile and shakes her head.

"Honey, it's fine," she says and walks over to pinch Stan on the cheek. "My Stan is very cuddly, know."

"Mom!" Stan gives an indignant whine and bats her hand away. Sharon laughs and turns her kind and loving smile on Gary.

"Do you want anything to eat?" she asks, and, as good as everything smells downstairs, Gary shakes his head.

"No thank you, Mrs. Marsh," he says and nooks down at his hands. "I'm not feeling too great."

Sharon gives a nod and braces folds her arms again.

"Well, all right," she says, looking at him with an enormous amount of pity for a moment before she gives a final nod. "I'm sure you're tired," she hums softly.

Gary nods back. "A lot, actually," he laughs slightly.

Sharon gives him a look of understanding before turning her gaze on Stan. "Honey," she says, "Fifteen more minutes and then I need you to help me with dishes downstairs."

"Wh—mom!" Stan exclaims. "You can't put a timestamp on me comforting my friend," he argues.

"Stan, it's fine," Gary replies, frowning a bit. He doesn't particularly like when Stan talks back to his mom—or when anyone does, as a matter of fact. It makes him intensely uncomfortable; your parents are your parents and at the end of the day, you need to at least respect them. "Your mom's right," Gary continues, "I'm really tired. I think I'm actually going to go to sleep right now. You can comfort me all you want tomorrow, I promise, just—go help your mom, okay?"

He gives Stan a reassuring smile, even though Stan gives him this disproportionately betrayed look in return. Gary knows Stan wouldn't impose, y'know… sex stuff on him right now, and quite frankly he's not so sure he wants to touch a penis ever again. He just plain does not have the energy.

For anything.

The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and suddenly he hits a wall of exhaustion. He can actually barely keep his eyes open right now. In spite of the constant, niggling fear in the back of his head, the absolutely despairing realization that everything he knew about his life is over, all he wants to do is shut his eyes and sleep.

Stan seems to get this after a minute and gives him a nod.

"Okay," he says, "Well, I'll probably come up later—"

"Stanley," Sharon warns him lowly.

"Ma—"

"I am not running a brothel, young man," Sharon chastises sternly, and Stan rolls his eyes.

"_Fine_," he says, like this is the most unfair thing she's ever told him, before looking back to Gary. "You can have the bed, dude."

"Stan…" Gary attempts to counter, but Stan shakes his head and gives Gary a smile.

"It's cool, dude," he says, "The couch in the basement is actually a futon, so, y'know, I'm golden."

Gary's a little dumbstruck by this (or, maybe by the sweet kiss Stan gives him right after), though he doesn't know why. Stan is one of the kindest people Gary knows, and sometimes he even lets it show. There's no reason he should be surprised.

The moment Stan and Sharon shut the door behind them, Gary falls to the bed again and passes out almost immediately.

Gary doesn't wake to Stan wrapped around him like he thought he would, which he supposes is good. He doesn't want to disrespect Sharon, and it's not like Stan and Gary have ever gotten the chance to fall asleep together anyway, so he figures he's not missing out or anything. It's on his list of things to try, but not right now. He looks over at the clock on Stan's nightstand and groans into the pillow. It's almost eight o'clock, which means he slept… wow, he just slept for thirteen hours.

He had no idea a person could be so exhausted.

He rolls out of bed and rubs his hands over his face before his stomach lets out a low rumble. He groans and stands, yawning and heavy-limbed as he stands and ventures downstairs. Stan sleeps like the dead, and probably won't be up for a while, but Gary knows Stan keeps a store of strawberry poptarts that Gary is "always welcome to".

He grabs a pack out of the pantry and puts them in the toaster, folding his arms over his chest as he comes to the realization that this is one of the first times in his life that he hasn't been at church at this time on a Sunday.

The basement door opens and Stan stumbles out, yawning and stretching the sleep out of his muscles as he shuffles over to Gary. Gary can't keep his eyes off of him—Stan is intensely good looking, no one's denying that. With his flannel pajama pants and his worn out gray shirt hugging at his nicely toned chest… Gary shifts.

"Hey," Stan greets him through a sleepy smile, coming forward to wrap him in his arms and kiss him softly. They both have morning breath, but Gary doesn't mind.

Normally, kissing when he should be in church would be enough to make Gary duck away and tell Stan to try again later or something, but he's just so desperate to be close to someone who cares for him right now that he wraps his arms around Stan's neck and holds him close.

"Wow," Stan laughs a little when he pulls away. "How're you feeling?"

"I don't wanna talk about it," Gary murmurs and buries his face in Stan's neck. His poptarts shoot up anyway, and like a dork he goes to grab them as soon as they're done. He burns his fingers a bit and flings them rather spastically onto a plate, making Stan laugh and hug him close from behind.

"You wanna watch TV instead?" Stan asks, and Gary nods. He doesn't watch a whole lot of TV, but he's willing to do just about anything right now. He knows that desperation is a slippery slope, and what he really should be doing now is stepping back calmly and putting his energy into picking up the remaining shards of his life. He needs to just stop thinking for a minute and remember that Heavenly Father is going to get him through this.

He has a funny way of doing that, see, no matter how bleak things seem.

But right now Stan smells all sleepy and good and he's nice and warm and slings an arm over Gary's shoulder as they settle in to watch TV. It's nice. It's really nice. He knows the church is strict about this, and he knows his parents are too, but Gary finds himself wondering for the briefest flicker of an instant if they'd care if they knew how honestly happy he is. Stan's a good guy, and up until a few hours ago, Gary's family liked him. This happy feeling in his chest is the same one he gets when he helps people with his family, or when he's just sitting around with them, goofing off and having a good time. This doesn't feel like everyone told him it would.

Like he told Kenny, this is a part of him. Liking boys is a part of who he is. And when you allow yourself to be just who you are, no holding back, it feels incredible.

It all comes to a grinding halt when the front door opens, and in walks Kyle Broflovski, clad in pajamas of his own (with that ratty old green hat on his head) and a plate of cookies in his hands. He looks like he's just seen a ghost.

"Hey, dude, what's up?" Stan asks, immediately shifting his arm back into his lap. Gary feels a stab of longing in his gut, but says nothing.

"Oh," Kyle shakes his head and pulls a frown. "Sorry, I just—I couldn't sleep and you weren't answering your phone… thought I'd come by and see if you were awake, see how everything was going. Uh, my mom heard about what happened," Kyle turns his attention to Gary now and grudgingly holds up the cookies. "She wanted me to take these over here last night, but Stan said you were sacked out, so…" Kyle trails off and eventually sets the cookies on the table.

Kyle has never liked him—Gary knows this. His family is very nice, though, even if they're a little protective and strict. Gary can relate to that.

"She also told me to find out if you have any dietary restrictions, because she wants to make dinner for you tonight," Kyle says, like he's rehearsing a prepared list of instructions. Gary can't help it—he smiles big and wide.

"Wow," he says softly. "I eat everything. Tell your mom thanks, and that that's really, really nice of her."

Gary's sometimes surprised at the good will of others when the going gets tough. Sure, people will ridicule you and judge you when all is fine and dandy, but when things take a turn for the worse, it's amazing what kindnesses people will show you.

Sharon comes down the stairs then, all wrapped in a bathrobe and smiling warmly at the full living room before her.

"Good morning, boys," she hums. She kisses Kyle on the cheek as she passes him, "Hello Kyle, sweetheart."

"Hi Sharon," Kyle smiles back. Gary watches it all with a weird sort of envy creeping up on him that he quickly stomps back down. Stan and Kyle have known each other forever—of course they walk into each other's houses and call each other's parents by their first names. They're a part of each other's lives, they always have been, and they probably always will be.

Gary's close to Stan, but not in that way.

In others, sure, but he'd take having a friend as good as Stan over going down on him any day of the week.

"So," Sharon says as she puts on a pot of coffee and wanders back into the room. "Gary, honey, you are more than welcome to stay with us for a few days, but… are you sure there's no talking to your parents or getting them to let you come home?"

Her earnest desire to be helpful is the only thing that's keeping Gary from breaking down right now. People don't get it—they never get it—and sure, it's no one's _fault_, but it's still frustrating as heck.

"No, Mrs. Marsh," he says softly.

"Anyone we can call, who you can stay with?"

Gary shakes his head, looking down at his lap. The only family he has that isn't with the church is his mom's estranged older sister out in Oregon. He can't go to Oregon—he needs to finish school here.

"Why can't he stay here?" Stan asks.

"Nope," Kyle shakes his head at the very same moment Sharon comes out with an "Absolutely not." Gary frowns at this, looking at Kyle curiously. Kyle meets his eye for half a second and, suddenly, Gary gets it—the reason for all the hostility and the sour faces.

Kyle's in love with Stan. Or, at least, loves him enough in just the right way, enough to make him jealous of Gary. It all makes sense now. Kyle loves Stan in exactly the way Stan never thought he would.

In exactly the way that drove Stan to people like Butters and Gary.

In exactly the way that's making Stan shift uncomfortably and sit on his hands.

"Uh, I think I'm gonna shower," Gary says and stands. He needs to wash the last day off of him, to forget it all happened and start moving on. A shower is just the thing that'll kickstart him back into functioning. He gets up from the sofa and heads upstairs, trying not to eavesdrop on all the reasons Sharon doesn't want him to stay. It's understandable—he's another mouth to feed, and she seems to know exactly what's going on between him and her son.

Gary shuts it all out, just locks the door to the bathroom and turns on a hot blast of water, ready to forget that the last few hours ever happened.

**oooooo**

The moment the sound of the shower hits Kyle's ears, he loosens up immediately. Gary has always made Kyle intensely uncomfortable, though it's not for a lack of trying. He's Stan's friend, and Kyle's tried to respect that, but there's something about him that rubs him the wrong way.

Plus, his mom always gets really mad at him when Kyle rags on him. She's convinced it's racial discrimination, and no matter how many times Kyle tells her that, no, it's because he's an overly optimistic jag.

"Stanley," Sharon says very plainly, very drawn out and imploring, "I realize that you and Gary are… _intimate_—"

"Aw, mom!" Stan grimaces and pulls a face.

"Honey, it's not even the _main_ reason why it is inappropriate for him to be living here!" Sharon exclaims. "You two are close, and honey, that's wonderful, but it's not our job to give him a place to live."

"Mom, I—"

"End of discussion, Stanley," Sharon snaps, putting her hand up and giving Stan an overwhelmingly stern look. Stan just rolls his eyes and moves to go up the stairs, not saying anything. Sharon sighs then and sends a pleading look Kyle's way.

"Would you please go talk some sense into him?" she asks. "He'll listen to you."

Kyle just stares back at her for a second. He knows that, to a certain extent, this is true. Kyle is often the only person who can pull Stan out of his morose little funks—at least, that used to be the case. Now Gary's always there with a stupidly unwavering smile and all that shit.

Kyle usually resorts to kicking Stan's ass into feeling better or seeing reason. How is he supposed to compete with someone like Gary, who is the dictionary definition of cheer?

He falters under Sharon's gaze and sighs. "Fine," he groans. "I'll go talk to him quick."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Sharon beams and gives him a squeeze on the shoulder. She looks at Kyle like she can see right through him, and knowing her she probably can. Kyle turns to go up the stairs before he gives her the satisfaction of reading him like a book, especially since he has no idea what it is that she can see.

He stomps up the stairs and into Stan's room and stops in the doorway. Stan is in nothing but a pair of jeans, looking through his dresser drawer for a shirt to pull on. Kyle feels something kick the air out of his lungs and redirects his gaze to the ground.

"Hey, dude," he says, and Stan pulls whatever shirt he has in his hand close to his chest to cover himself.

"Hey," Stan returns awkwardly, and it's like that for a few moments. _Intensely_ awkward.

"So, um," Kyle shifts. "You and Gary, huh?"

Stan falters and pulls his shirt over his head, coloring significantly but saying nothing for a few long seconds. Kyle shuts the door and grabs at the back of his neck with both of his hands.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks. So much for talking some sense into him. Stan's eyes slip shut and he braces his hands on his hips. It's a normal gesture, but something about it makes Kyle's blood pump harder and toes curl up in his shoes.

"I wanted to," Stan sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "Just… we needed to keep it quiet, first of all, and—" he falters. "And I didn't know what you'd say if I told you, so I just, y'know… didn't."

Kyle nods. No lying, that kind of stings. He and Stan have always been the kinds of friends who could tell each other anything and it would be okay. Sure, they've started doing their own things recently, but Kyle always thought…

Never mind. It doesn't matter what he thought, only that it's obviously not true.

"You know he can't live here, right?" Kyle just says, making sure his 'You know I'm right' face is well in place. Stan slumps a little bit, but nods all the same.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know. It's just—he doesn't have anywhere to go, Kyle. Like, nowhere."

Kyle nods, "I know." True, Gary's not exactly the most popular guy in town, but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a place to go. The fact that Stan's the only friend he can come to with this is kind of fucked up—yeah, Kyle may not like the guy, but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve a few good friends, you know?

"Dude, I'll talk to my mom," he says then and Stan's head snaps up. He looks at Kyle curiously as he continues, "Look, she's got a hard-on for helping people like this, okay? And, like… maybe she'll be able to talk some sense into his parents—"

"Dude, it's part of their fucking religion, okay?" Stan snaps. "I mean, it's fucked up and everything, but she can't talk them out of their _religion_."

Kyle raises his eyebrow, "Have you met my mom? She'll sure as shit try." When this fails to comfort Stan, Kyle sighs and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "She wants to help him, dude. Why do you think she invited him over for dinner? And I—fuck, I wanna help too."

Stan gives him a scrutinizing look then, not unlike the one Kyle's seen Sharon give time and time again. "Why? You hate him."

"Irrelevant," Kyle supplies immediately. "And I don't. Yeah, he's annoying, but you like him, so… unless that's entirely to do with how well he handles your dick, he must be okay."

Stan barks out a laugh at that, making Kyle bust up a little himself. When in doubt, make a joke. If anything, you'll make someone laugh and you'll diffuse a little of the tension. Plus, sometimes people have really nice smiles that just belong on their faces always.

"Dude," Stan smiles and shakes his head before holding out his arms and pulling him into a hug. Normally Kyle's not averse to Stan's hugs, but right now it feels a little strange to be pressed so close against him.

Fuck.

Fuck, he's got it bad.

How in the hell was Cartman right about something for once?

The door opens then, Gary entering all freshly showered and wrapped in a towel, and Kyle and Stan fly apart. Gary looks at them curiously, but he looks like he feels a lot better than he did a little bit ago, like he's one of those people who believes that showers are not only cleansing, but "cleansing" as well.

"'scuse me, guys," he says and goes to grab the bag of his stuff off of Stan's desk chair. He pulls out a small bundle of what look like once-neatly folded clothes and colors a bit before exiting the room and dressing in the bathroom. Kyle doesn't dare say a word until he returns, and even then he can't find it in himself to speak for a few minutes.

_Hey, I wasn't making moves on your not-boyfriend… except I do kind of want his face on my face._

Smooth.

"Um," he finally comes out with it. "Gary, would you want to maybe come over and talk to my mom about staying with us for a while?"

That seems to catch Gary off guard. He already looks a little like a wet cat and not as well-groomed as Kyle is used to seeing him. Maybe that's making him a little more bearable to be around.

"What?" Gary just says, and Kyle finds himself nodding.

"My parents are all about this liberal crusader stuff," he says. "Gay and Mormon? They'll have a fucking field day helping you."

Kyle almost smiles at the way that Stan sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, but he keeps his focus on Gary. He gives him this hopefully reassuring smile and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. He isn't sure where to go from here, apart from waiting for Gary to respond to him, so he just sort of adjusts his hat and gives them both a smile.

"Um," he coughs. "I'm gonna go start my computers homework. I'll see you guys—"

"Well, hang on a second," Gary interjects, holding up a hand so Kyle will stop. It's something that would normally make Kyle roll his eyes and scoff, but somehow it gets him to slow down this time. "Kyle, would your family really do that?"

Kyle just blinks a few times and nods. "Yeah, dude," he says. "I mean, we'd have to talk to my mom, but worse comes to worse, you've got a place to stay for at least the next few days. She lets Kenny stay with us whenever he needs to."

He inwardly shudders at how much his mom loves playing mommy to Kenny. The more his mom feels bad for you, the more she's going to take pity on you. Ever since Kenny and his brother and sister got put in foster care that first time, Kyle's mom has always made it her first priority to treat Kenny like one of her own.

He has the feeling the same thing is going to happen as soon as Gary walks in Kyle's front door.

"Would you mind if I came now?" Gary asks. "I mean, it's probably best if I sort everything out as soon as possible, right?"

Kyle looks over at Stan, who's got his eyes firmly fixed on Gary, and looks back. Gary's staring at him, looking all hopeful, and Kyle just nods.

"Yeah, sure dude," Kyle nods. Gary grins broadly and flies forward to bring Kyle into a bone-crushing hug. Kyle grunts a bit, tosses Stan a worried look, and is met by Stan shifting uncomfortably where he stands. He doesn't even have time to mouth 'what's wrong?' before Gary's got his bag over his shoulder and is waiting for Kyle to lead the way.

Kyle gives Stan a final shrug and a smile before the three of them walk downstairs. Stan stops them by the door and, looking back at the kitchen to make sure his mom is occupied, ducks forward and kisses Gary softly. Kyle averts his eyes immediately, trying to tune it out as Stan says, "Let me know what's going on, okay?"

An innocuous request. They don't say 'I love you' or anything gross like that, which makes Kyle way happier than it should. This culminates with Stan pulling him into another hug, holding him so close and so tight that Kyle can feel their hearts beating together through their chests.

Stan doesn't say anything, but he doesn't need to. They know each other inside and out, and talking sometimes just clutters that and makes everything feel all mucky and dragging.

It does make the walk back to his house with Gary all the more uncomfortable, though.

"Are you all right?" Gary asks.

Kyle frowns. "What?" he returns, "I'm fine, dude. Why're you worried about me? I'm not the one who got kicked out of my house for… ah, sorry." Kyle squints when he sees Gary give him a look out of the corner of his eye.

"It's all right," Gary shrugs, and after a beat continues, "That must've been hard for you."

Kyle looks at him now, eyebrow cocked and entirely ready to play it aloof. Gary just smiles sadly and shakes his head, though, having none of Kyle's shit, apparently.

"You like him," he says, and Kyle feels his blood run cold.

Shit. "Gary, I'm sorry—"

"Why are you apologizing?" Gary gives a good-natured laugh. "Kyle, it's not anyone's fault who they're attracted to. I know, believe me, and you and Stan are close. Some things are just inevitable under certain circumstances."

"Certain circumstances?" Kyle parrots back, and Gary gives a resolute nod.

"You like guys, Stan's attractive… you know, those kinds of circumstances," Gary says. "I'm not mad."

Kyle lets out a frustrated groan at that and kicks at a large rock on the sidewalk in front of Craig's house. "How?" he practically shouts. "How in the fuck are you not mad?"

"Wow, man," Gary holds up his hands, taken aback. "There's no need for that kind of language when I'm just trying to be nice to you."

"Well, stop!" Kyle snaps. "Stop being nice. You should hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" Gary frowns. "Kyle, none of this is either of our fault. We're both hard up for the same guy—trust me, it's not a big deal."

This, of course, make Kyle feel like a piece of shit since he's making a big deal out of nothing to a kid that just got kicked out of his family for something that isn't his fault. Kyle slumps a bit at this and runs his fingers through his hair, looking a little hopelessly at Gary before he mumbles out an apology.

"Still kind of fu—messed up, though," Kyle corrects himself. "I'm just—this whole thing, I mean. I'm not gonna try to take him from you or whatever… I'm too busy with school to maintain a relationship or whatever."

And it's true. Kyle's not sure how he would handle a relationship on top of everything else right now.

"Well, a. you can't take him, because he's a person," Gary points out, "and, b…" he gives Kyle a hard look, "wow, you really don't get it, do you?"

Kyle raises his eyebrows at this, "What?"

"You, Kyle," Gary says loudly. "He loves you. He always has, you've just been too wrapped up in everything else to notice."

The words bounce off Kyle's ears, making him shake his head and fold his arms over his chest. "No, he doesn't," Kyle says. "He's with you—"

"Are you serious?" Gary raises his eyebrows, laughing now. It's not cruel or anything, like Cartman is when Kyle _just_ _doesn't get _something, but Gary looks like he definitely can't believe what he's hearing.

"Kyle, just because two people screw around doesn't mean they're in love," he comes close to Kyle now, missing that bit of fear and shame that always keeps him so conservative and reserved with his unhappy feelings. "I'm his friend. That's it. You were busy, he was scared and confused, and I—admittedly I might've taken advantage of our friendship, which I… I don't regret, but it certainly wasn't right of me. You were busy and I was just so relieved for another guy to tell me that he liked boys, to let me know that I wasn't alone. And it's nice, Kyle… The first time you kiss someone you actually want to kiss and it's really easy to get caught up in it, and I did. I got way caught up in it. I'm just glad it didn't go as far as it could have. As good as what I do with Stan feels, I always find myself wondering how amazing it must feel to do it with someone I love. And I don't want to stand in the way of that for you two, so… I stand down."

Kyle's head is still spinning from Gary's purge when the last words hit his ears. Stand down? What the hell? How does someone just stand in the middle of the sidewalk and talk at length about this kind of thing, so self-aware and well-adjusted? Kyle would kill for an understanding like that, at least, in regards to all the shit he does.

And, more importantly, how does someone just stand there and tell you that they "stand down"?

"Gary, that's dumb," Kyle scowls now. "I mean, I appreciate it, but I told you I can't handle that right now. Plus, even if I did… _make a move_ or whatever," the thought of giving Stan flowers and holding his hand at the movies actually makes him nauseous, "we're going to different schools in a year. A romantic relationship would make absolutely no sense right now."

Gary looks at him a little desperately and lets out a little sigh. "Crap," he says. "Now telling him I don't want to mess around anymore is way less noble."

Kyle waits a few beats before he asks, "Was that sarcasm?"

"Yes, Kyle," Gary nods. "That was sarcasm."

They look at each other for another moment before turning and continuing on their walk. Kyle's head hurts, which is going to make tackling the rest of his homework all the more difficult, and Kyle is suddenly reminded of why he doesn't bother with people who aren't Cartman or, sometimes, Kenny. Cartman has issues, and he's a raging tool, but he's so repressed that he never wants to talk about what's bothering him. And Kyle's acerbic enough that he's learned how to deflect Cartman's bullshit with frightening ease.

Other people's business makes his head hurt like crazy.

"You don't love Stan?" Kyle finds himself asking.

"Oh, of course I do," Gary shrugs. "I wouldn't get involved with anyone I didn't care for or feel safe with, but I don't think I could be in a relationship with him. There are certain things that are important to me that he doesn't get, and vice versa. He's one of the nicest people I know, but there are some things we'll never fully see eye to eye on."

"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought," Kyle remarks, a little more bite to it than there probably should be.

"I'm very efficient when it comes to self-reflection," Gary nods, and gives Kyle a bright, cheeky smile. "Though I might have to hurt you if you break his heart."

Kyle doesn't doubt this. After he took down Kenny without even meaning to, the threat holds a little more water.

When they back to Kyle's, they enter into a haze of Pine-Sol and Windex. Anticipating that Gary was going to say 'yes' to her dinner invitation, Kyle's mom must have started trying to spruce up the place. Her graying red hair is piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun as she runs a feather duster between the posts of the staircase, stopping like a deer in the headlights when she realizes that she's no longer alone.

"Hello, boys," she gives an uncomfortable smile, adjusting her hair a bit. "I had no idea you'd be home so soon."

"Ma," Kyle says, taking a step forward once he shuts the door. "I know it's a lot to ask, but Gary doesn't have anywhere to go—"

His mom puts a hand over her heart and looks over at Gary, her green eyes wide.

"Honey, do you not have a place to stay?" she asks, like this is the furthest scenario possible from the actual truth. Gary just purses his lips and shakes his head.

"Not presently," he says. Kyle's mom looks back at him, asking for silent verification, _begging_ him to not let it be true, but Kyle just shrugs and nods.

"Oh, honey, you'll stay with us, of course," his mom looks back at Gary and comes over to pull him into a hug. She's at least a head shorter than Gary, and Gary looks quite like he doesn't know what to do about this, but he gets it in him to hug back after a moment.

"Mrs. Broflovski, I really don't want to impose," he begins.

"Nonsense!" Kyle's mom says and pulls away. "The boys can bunk up together for a while—Ike's still got a bunk bed."

"And to think you once thought that was a bad idea," Kyle shakes his head, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He does not want to share a room with Ike, but… Okay, Gary needs a place to stay, and he'd rather it be here than in an alley somewhere.

"Kyle, don't be smart," his mother warns. "Go upstairs, put new sheets on your bed, and make some room for Gary's things."

"Oh, this is everything," Gary indicates the bag on his shoulder. This only seems to invoke more pity from Kyle's mom, leading her to pat his arm gingerly and say, "Don't you worry about a thing here with us, all right? You are safe here. Now, go upstairs with Kyle and I'll call your parents to let them know where you are. All this aside, I'm sure they're very worried about you."

Kyle rolls his eyes and grabs Gary's shirt before anything else can be said. They head up to Kyle's room, way neater than Stan's has ever been (even on its dirtiest days), and before Kyle can even start stripping the sheets off his bed, Gary pulls him into another hug.

"Thank you," Gary says against his neck. There are tears clogging his voice, making it all thick and a little hard to understand. Kyle hugs him back, trying as hard as he can not to be a socially awkward twit about the whole thing.

He couldn't imagine his family putting him through anything like what Gary's family did to him. Kyle doesn't blame Gary for wanting to keep his distance from Stan—Kyle knows he'd dump all of his cigarettes in the trash if his mom ever found him smoking for real.

He just lets Gary cry on him for a while, knowing that this is probably what he needs. When Gary finally calms down enough, he helps Kyle remake his bed and even offers to fix the broken closet door and spruce up his rickety old dresser while he's here.

Kyle concludes that maybe having a nice guy around won't be so bad after all.

* * *

**Hello all! Thank you all for bearing with me and my slowing updates. I think I might get one more chapter out (two maybe) before I graduate, at which point I may appear to drop off the face of the earth for a while, but I will be back. I guess what I'm trying to say is: don't worry, this story will get finished. :)**

**The chapter title is from ABBA's _Chiquitita_. Because I have a very chic and modern taste in music. **

**Love you all and have a great weekend! **


	9. Left Here on My Own

**Chapter 9: Left Here On My Own (I'm Gonna Hurt Myself)**

Butters' chores take him much longer to do on his own.

Then again, he remembers someone once telling him you're apt to move slower when you're down in the dumps. He can't help it, though—his Saturdays just aren't the same without Kenny hanging out, stealing kisses while they dust his mom's knickknacks and things like that.

He liked hearing Kenny's voice while he did things around the house, liked how Kenny's hands felt on him, all timid and uncertain, but still so sure of what they were doing, what they were making Butters feel. And now all of a sudden it's gone, and Butters is back to feeling… _odd_ again.

Even when he tries to talk to Kenny at school, he just avoids him. Butters is used to being avoided, and it's not the first time he's been ignored, but it still hurts… especially when he—jeez, as stupid as it is, he was starting to think that Kenny liked him. Like, _like_-liked him, in exactly the way that Butters is only starting to understand himself.

Kenny hates him… God, he must. Butters is the one who let this go as far as it did, and all because he can't keep his mouth off a guy. There's his problem right there: he's nothing but a no-good dirty slut. He's actually surprised it hasn't driven more people away from him before now.

Except, Kenny's a slut too. Of anything, Butters thought that would be something that bonded them together, not something that would make Kenny drop him like a hot potato. Unless, of course, Butters is far too _much_ of a slut for Kenny. That's possible, right?

Or maybe Butters made Kenny realize that he doesn't like boys after all. Butters did his best to make Kenny feel good, but maybe it wasn't enough. That would figure—he's kind of a dismal specimen of man and he's not entirely sure of why anyone would ever come to him for sex to begin with.

He's not worth anyone's time.

He can't even wash dishes properly; how's he supposed to be appealing to others as a well put-together human being?

"Oh, Butters!" his mother exclaims, running a finger over the bottom of her roasting pan. "What on earth are you thinking over there? There's grease still _caked_ on this pan."

"A-aw, gee," Butters stammers. His head is just not in it tonight. God, how worthless can you get if you can't even manage to wash a dish properly? Isn't that functional person 101? "I-I'm real sorry, mom."

"Not as sorry as I am, young man," his mom just shakes her head as she rolls up her sleeves. "If you're just going to sit here like a bump on a log and pretend that you're working, you can just go to your room and stare at the wall until you decide you want to be productive, young man."

Butters nods his head and heads toward the stairs without a word. She's got a point: nothing's worth doing if you're not even going to do it right. He's gotten better at concentrating on what he's doing over the years, but every once in a while he just _can't_ do anything without making a total fool out of himself.

He passes his dad but doesn't say anything—there's not really much to say, and he knows whatever his dad can say will make him feel awful. He just goes upstairs and lays down on his bed, perfectly content to stare up at the glowing stars on his ceiling until he falls asleep.

There has to be some parallel universe out there where Butters doesn't suck at everything he does. Maybe there's even one where people kind of like him and want to be around him. The one he got dropped into is kind of awful, and he doesn't much like a whole lot of it.

Butters' phone rings then and he's brought back into the real world, this world, the one where he's just a sorry excuse for human life.

"Hello?" he answers.

"Hey, dude." It's Stan. He's been calling Butters more and more ever since Gary got kicked out of his house last week. It's not that Butters doesn't like Stan or doesn't want to hang out with him or anything, it's just that Butters kind of misses Kenny and he doesn't feel like doing anything other than being sad.

"Hey there, Stan," he says, not bothering to put the usual happy lilt in his voice. Everything is just pretty sucky today.

"I'm fucking bored, wanna come over?" Stan offers rather bluntly. "I moved my Xbox up into my room and I got a giant thing of root beer and some Snacky S'mores."

Damn it. Root beer is his favorite, and he's been known to take out a whole box of Snacky S'mores if he's not careful. Video games aren't really his thing, though, and the thought of sitting on Stan's bed and eating himself into a sugar coma while Stan plays Assassin's Creed or something is not sounding like a fun and interesting night.

"I think I'm just gonna stay in tonight," Butters sighs. "I'm kinda feelin' a little down. I-I don't think I'll be too much fun."

"I'll suck your dick," Stan offers.

Well, there's no sense in being rude.

"I'll leave now," Butters says and hangs up. He doesn't bother telling his parents he's leaving. It's eight o'clock—his parents will be heading to bed soon and probably won't bother to check on him. They like to leave him alone after they punish him, even if it's something like sending him to his room for the night. Maybe they know the toll isolation takes on him.

He slips on his shoes and opens up his window. It's December now, and it's starting to get a little cold and icy outside, so he grabs his jacket and slips it over the sweater he's already got on before he climbs out his window. He lands softly on the grass below and promptly heads off toward Stan's house.

Part of Butters wants to get caught—getting caught would mean that his mom had come into his room to apologize, to talk to him, to at least _acknowledge_ him at the very least—but he knows he won't. He could just as easily have snuck out of the house to kill himself and they wouldn't even notice he was gone until Monday morning when they would go to wake him up for school.

Stan answers the door when Butters gets there. His hair is all messy and he looks like he just woke up after sleeping for five days straight. He's in his pajamas, and smiling at Butters like a fucking lunatic.

"Looking for a good time?" he asks facetiously. Butters sticks out his tongue and steps inside. They head up to Stan's room, where Stan shuts them in and sits down back in front of the TV to resume his game. Butters grabs a bottle of root beer and the box of Snacky S'mores and proceeds to make a nest out of the unruly tangle of blankets next to Stan's bed.

"Thought you were gonna suck me off," he says, twisting the cap off of his root beer and taking a long, satisfied sip.

"I'll get to it, fuck," Stan shakes his head. "I have to finish this first." He guns down someone on the screen while Butters shoves food into his face and gulps down soda in a way that would make his mother have a heart attack.

"You all right, dude?" Stan asks after a few minutes, still not taking his eye off his game. "You've been off for a while."

"Yeah," Butters shifts. He's not so sure that he wants to go into this right now, especially when there's promise of fellatio on the horizon.

"Come on, dude," Stan says, poking him in the side in an attempt to jostle him into talking. Butters smiles a little bit and squirms, because if Stan's asking it means he wants to know and he actually cares about what happens to Butters.

"I don't know," Butters just shrugs. "I guess I'm just lookin' for somethin' to do now that Kenny's not… well, now that he's decided we're not doin' this anymore." He's actually really sad about it, now that he thinks on it. Not that he could ever say that or tell Kenny or anything, because that's just flat-out needy, and that's one of his worst qualities. He really does rely much too much on other people to validate him when he knows that he shouldn't.

"I know how you feel," Stan shakes his head. "Kyle and Gary are in a bunch of the same classes, and now that Gary's staying there it's like they never have any time to do anything but hang out with each other… which is weird. Meanwhile, I guess I'm just supposed to sit here and play with myself until someone decides to stop being a raving twat and talk to me."

"Exactly," Butters nods and raises his root beer in a toast. "I'm just… I-I reckon I liked doing stuff with him, y'know? Not just touchin' each other, either. I liked him."

Stan just purses his lips and gives a tight, fed-up nod. "Ditto times, like, a thousand, dude." He pauses his game then and sets down his controller, looking over at Butters like he's expecting him to say something. When the silence perpetuates he hangs his head and takes Butters' hand out of the box of Snacky S'mores. Butters' heart speeds up when Stan threads their fingers together and starts tracing over the outline of veins on the back of his hand.

"Why do people suck?" he asks then. Butters laughs a little and shrugs, "I couldn't tell ya."

Stan smiles and moves the food out from between them so he can tug Butters close to him. Butters is just desperate enough to buy into it and snuggle close to him. Stan is warm and solid and he's not afraid of boys, which is a quality Butters really needs to start looking for in his sexual partners.

"You want me to kick Kenny's ass for him next time I see him?" Stan asks. Butters laughs a little at that, but shakes his head.

"No, nothin' like that," he says. "Not his fault I'm unappealing."

"Oh, fuck you, dude," Stan scoffs. "You're hot, get over it."

Butters whines and hides his face in the crook of Stan's neck. Stan pokes him in the side again and holds him closer. Stan's always trying to get Butters to think better about himself, which Butters doesn't quite get. He doesn't need to be coddled, but Stan usually follows it up with kissing him or cuddling him or something nice.

They kiss, and it's nice. It's different from kissing Kenny, but Stan's lips are nice and soft (the product of an addictive chapstick habit) and it gets Butters to wondering how Gary couldn't want kisses like this forever. Stan's kisses are always comforting.

And then suddenly Butters is hit by the realization that he's really… really horny. Like, problematically so. His body went from a lot of messing around to nothing at all—it was like hitting a brick wall and it's left Butters all wriggly and wanting to be touched.

"Stan," he says softly when he pulls back. "Stan, you got condoms here?"

Stan raises his eyebrows and gives Butters a hazy look of confusion. "Yeah?" he returns. "Why?"

"Lube? Or hand lotion or somethin'?" Butters asks, lips moving slick against Stan's. He climbs on top of Stan's lap and wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him again. Stan's responsive too, slipping his hands down Butters' sides and grabbing his ass.

"You wanna…?" Stan huffs as he pulls away and runs his tongue over his lips. Butters just nods, kissing him again.

"Fuck me," he pleads softly. "Please? I need it, Stan. I need it so bad."

Stan whimpers at that and rests his forehead on Butters' chest, taking a few deep breaths, in and out.

"Have you ever done it before?" he asks, and Butters nods.

"Yeah," he says. "Once or twice. Have you?"

Stan shakes his head, "Gary never wanted to… Are you—I don't wanna hurt you, dude."

"You won't," Butters shakes his head, sliding his lips against Stan's, the insistent need humming in his blood driving this forward more than anything. "You've never hurt me in your life, Stan. You're always good to me. _Please_."

That's all it takes to set Stan in motion. They shift up so they're on the bed, Butters flat on his back and Stan hovering above him and—_God_—nothing on the planet should be so nice. Stan wants him, wants to kiss him and touch him and love on him and make him feel good. Butters likes feeling good, and is very bad at getting there by himself.

Stan pulls back Butters' layers one by one, and soon Butters is half naked and panting on Stan's messy bedspread. Butters just gives him a look and returns the favor. Stan's like a kid in a candy store after that, pinning Butters back down and kissing him all over, like he hasn't gotten to do this to anyone in a long time.

And maybe he hasn't.

Butters is beyond hard in his pants now, pulling Stan's hips down to him and grinding against him. Stan seems to get the hint and soon they're both naked and fumbling awkwardly together. Stan's a mass of solid muscle above him, somehow rough and soft at the same time.

"Stan," Butters says softly as Stan's tongue flicks over one of his nipples. "Stan, do—d'you have any lube? Y-y'never answered."

Stan looks up at him a little dazed, before nodding vaguely and pulling a tiny tube out from under his mattress, along with a length of condoms. It looks like it's never been opened. Butters takes it and gives Stan a questioning look.

"Oh," Stan's eyebrows pinch together. "I got it… I thought Gary would want to, y'know… but he never did."

Butters just nods and brings him into another kiss, quick and not at all the drawn out tender one Stan's going for.

"Lay on your back," he hums softly. He sees something flash behind Stan's eyes, a brief moment of terror in which he's unsure if it's him or Butters who will be getting something shoved up his butt. Butters just smiles and nips his chin, "I was gonna get myself ready. Unless you want to."

Stan looks from Butters to the lube and back again, like he's trying to solve one of the world's last and greatest mysteries. He then takes the lube from him and opens it, a little clumsily but not without purpose. He slicks his fingers as Butters wriggles out of his pants, sighing as the warm air of Stan's room hits his erection.

"Let me know if I hurt you," Stan says imploringly, and that's a little strange. Butters isn't generally in the business of bedding guys who give two shits about whether or not they hurt him. But he and Stan are friends—good friends—the kind of friends who help each other and remind one another that new things aren't scary, just… _new_.

Stan probes his fingers a little awkwardly, Butters making sure to whisper little words of encouragement every so often.

"I'm trying to find the spot, dude," Stan explains when Butters tells him that he's done enough, that they're good to go.

"Stan, you don't have to," Butters attempts to reason. "I don't need y—" his voice dies in his throat the second Stan presses against it. Stan seems to get the gist and hits it again, and again, and suddenly he's got Butters shoving a pillow over his face and mewling like he's never felt anything so good in his life.

When he feels a little pull starting in his stomach, he pulls the pillow off his face and whacks Stan in the shoulder with it.

"Stop," he pants as Stan starts laughing. He pushes into it again, getting Butters to whine, "You're gonna make me come, stop it."

"Oh fuck, really?" Stan asks as he retracts his fingers, eyebrows in his hairline now. His dazed and curious face is kind of cute, cute enough for Butters to launch forward and pin him to the bed with a rather primal little growl. He grabs the condoms and tears one off, tossing the rest somewhere on the floor with his pants. Stan gets the hint and shucks his pajamas, discarding them in a similar fashion.

Butters rolls the condom over Stan and lubes him up a little bit more, just for good measure. Stan looks a little confused until Butters climbs on top of him and positions himself so that he can sink down onto Stan's cock, inch by painfully slow inch. It hurts, yeah, but Stan looks lost in it and, truth be told, Butters likes it when things are a little painful. He's used to being uncomfortable.

There's a few moments where Butters and Stan just sit there, Butters all the way down and Stan panting and groaning and trying to keep his hips from twitching, fused together and chests heaving against one another. For a moment everything else in the world blacks out and it's just them, together, wanted and needed and loved by each other and it's all that Butters can do not to choke on relief.

Stan would miss him if he wasn't around—even if it's only because they fuck around once in a blue moon—and with that Butters starts moving. It's awkward and fumbling at first, since Butters has never tried doing this and Stan's just beyond thrilled that his dick is inside someone else. Eventually, they fall into a rhythm that has Stan slamming up into Butters in just the right way and Butters letting loose these strings of dirty words that leave Stan whimpering and thrusting even harder.

Stan comes first, wrapping his arms around Butters' neck and pulling him down into a kiss. Butters follows quickly, the friction of being caught against Stan too much for him, and shoots all over his and Stan's torsos.

They don't disconnect for a few minutes, just lie there and kiss each other lazily until they start cramping up and have to move.

"Wow," is all Stan says when Butters rolls off of him. "That was awesome."

Butters lets out a breathy laugh next to him and rolls back over, cuddling up to Stan's chest and not even minding that they're both a little sweaty and sticky. Stan smells like sweat and sex and wraps his arms around Butters' shoulders. He's nice and cuddly, and what's even more is that he _likes_ being nice and cuddly, and Butters appreciates when he gets affection from other humans.

"You think we should clean up?" Stan asks after a little while. Butters chuckles a bit and nods. "Cool. You can have first shower if you want."

Butters just looks at him for a second, searching his face before asking, "You don't just wanna do it together?" He doesn't know that he can be alone right now—he doesn't like the idea of being alone in general, but he gets the feeling that he's going to plunge back into those weird feelings if Stan says no.

Stan gets a little lopsided grin on his face and sits up. "That wouldn't be weird?" he asks. Butters just shakes his head.

"We just had sex, I think we crossed whatever weirdness bridge that is a long time ago," he says and sits up too. He's pretty tender, and it's probably not exactly going to be a picnic walking around tomorrow, but it's nothing he can't handle. Stan shrugs, satisfied with this, and looks down at their messy stomachs.

"Goddamn, you come a lot, dude," he laughs and then grabs Butters' hand. They shower together, kissing lazily in between cleaning up. Stan gets this nervous look on his face every time Butters winces or shifts uncomfortably, and Butters has to reassure him multiple times that it's okay, that it feels good.

They go back to Stan's room, clean and a tired. Stan loans Butters a pair of pajamas and huddle up under Stan's blankets, wrapped around each other.

"Butters?" Stan says softly.

"Yeah?"

"This is super gay, so don't tell anyone I said this," he starts, which is always the best way to preface something, "but I'm stoked that we're friends."

"Is that 'cause I let you stick your penis in my butt?" Butters asks, eyes shut and on the brink of sleep.

"Mostly," Stan snorts. "I don't think people let you know how cool you are, though. So I'm letting you know."

Butters squirms a bit, but says nothing. Stan will get mad if he tries to say anything against it and he doesn't want that right now. He just wants to lie here with the smell of Stan's shower gel in his nose and the rise and fall of his chest lulling him into sleep.

ooooooooo

It's two days until the play. For the life of him, Kenny can't understand why anyone would come to a play on a Wednesday night, but he also can't imagine why anyone would come to a play at all, so… there you go. Even though he doesn't have a part, even though he's basically just there as decoration half the time, when he's called into the Dean's office for a check-in, he's told he has to go.

"I'd hate to think you're not participating in all your activities, Kenny," the Dean shakes his head. He wouldn't really hate it—he'd love to kick Kenny out of school, and the closer they get to graduation, the more and more satisfaction the dean would take in expelling him.

"Hey, have I fought once this year?" Kenny asks. "No, I'm too busy. Mission accomplished."

"There is no need for rudeness, Kenny," the dean warns. Kenny folds his arms over his chest and sinks in his chair, but apologizes all the same. He's been on edge the last few weeks, and he's not an idiot—he knows it's because he stopped seeing Butters. It was difficult at first, not seeing him or calling him or anything, but it's getting… easier isn't the right word, because he's cranky and irritable as shit and it's because he's not happy.

He's not.

He's not happy.

There are very few things in his life that make him happy, and being with Butters was one of them. Even if they weren't boyfriends or together, or even having sex, he _liked_ being around Butters. He's one of those people who just gets Kenny, and he doesn't have a lot of those people in his life.

"Now, the club advisor has informed me that you've skipped the last few weeks of meetings and rehearsals," the dean says. "Is this true?"

Kenny shrugs, but nods when it becomes apparent that the dean is in no mood to play games. Kenny's not really in the mood for it either, come to think of it. The dean just eyes him warily and then, like he's a human being or something, gathers that… maybe Kenny doesn't need to be berated. He just nods and lets him go without much else, and Kenny, while stunned, is grateful.

And it gets him to go to drama club after school, which means it's probably a way more effective tactic than anyone would give it credit for.

Everything is hectic in the theater when Kenny gets there. It's only a few minutes past three thirty, but Butters already has everyone working. Stan's up on stage with Gary, helping the crew out with placing the sets, while Butters and Wendy are in the audience, both looking a little flustered.

Kenny knows how to get that look off his face. He's pretty damn good at it, too.

He doesn't even realizing he's walking over toward him, like something caught in a tractor beam, until he's sitting right next to Butters and both he and Wendy just sort of turn and look at him like he's a ghost.

"Uh, sorry I'm late," he says.

Butters keeps looking at him, giving him this horrible little stare that simultaneously conveys both how glad he is that Kenny's there, and how pissed off he is at him for flat out ignoring him over the last two weeks.

"Thought you weren't gonna show," he admits. Kenny just shrugs, figuring it's inappropriate to confess that he almost didn't. It's rude to tell someone that you've been avoiding them because you have an insatiable urge to kiss their face in public.

"Anything you have for me to do?" he asks. Butters just jolts a bit, like he's been caught in his thoughts, and nods, tells him to go help Bebe paint the backdrop, and goes back to talking to Wendy without another word.

Okay.

Okay, that hurt a little.

He grabs his stuff and hops up on stage, giving Stan and Gary a little wave before he joins Bebe and Annie in painting the winter exterior backdrop, which is just some white hills and a sky and some snow falling.

"Hey, Kenny," Bebe gives him a smile and hands him a fat brush and a tin full of paint. "Haven't seen you around much lately."

"Yeah," Kenny frowns and starts tentatively painting a patch of blue on a blank part of the canvas. "Just really busy and everything."

"Is everything okay?" she asks. "Like, everything's okay with your parents and stuff?" She's genuinely concerned, Kenny knows… she always has been. Sometimes, when he didn't feel like going to Stan's or Kyle's, he'd go to Bebe's. She was always sympathetic, always let him talk, and even let him nuzzle her boobs after they started fooling around. Even now, with paint all over an old pair of jeans and her hair tied up in a messy bun on the top of her head, she still manages to look warm and inviting. He could tell her anything and it would be okay.

"My parents are fine," Kenny shakes his head and sighs. He looks over his shoulder, to where Annie has been called away to help paint the dog house, and turns back to Bebe, leaning in close. "Can I tell you something?"

"Of course," she frowns now, sitting down on the drop cloth and patting a place beside her. Kenny joins her, and as they both start painting a bank of snow, he comes out with it.

"I think like dick."

She's silent for a second, though her brush hasn't stopped moving. She looks up at him after a few beats pass and assesses his face, concluding that the proper reaction is to drop her brush and pull him into a smiley hug.

"It's okay," she laughs softly. "It happens to the best of us."

This catches Kenny slightly off-guard, enough so that he pulls back and just sort of looks at her, "Would it kill you to at least _pretend_ you're surprised?"

Bebe covers her mouth as she laughs. "I'm sorry," she says. "You just… you talk in your sleep. Sometimes it's really entertaining."

"Fuck you, I do not!" Kenny exclaims, eyes all bugged out as he smacks her on the arm.

"Kenny, the amount of times I've heard you narrating you getting your ass fucked is _astronomical_," Bebe enunciates. "I thought you knew… oh, if I'd known you were upset about it, I would've talked to you a long time ago. So you like dick, big deal. Dick is wonderful. I love dick."

"Whoa, okay," Kenny puts his hands up. "I get it. Nothing wrong with loving dick. What we're all failing to acknowledge is the fact that I still like tits and pussy too."

"Again," Bebe shrugs. "Happens to the best of us." She polishes off that last with a little wink and returns to her task of painting snow. Kenny is, however, left a little stunned.

"Wait, what?" Kenny asks. "Bebe Stevens, if you like eating pussy and I'm just now hearing about it, I'm going to be pissed."

"Why?" Bebe scowls. "You're just telling me that you like sucking cock. Do you realize how many years of our lives we've wasted not having sex parties in my basement? So many years, Kenneth."

Kenny laughs at that and hides his face in his hands. He's suddenly bombarded by images of Bebe doing some very naughty things with other ladies that makes his dick think this is an appropriate time to have a party.

"How're you holding up?" Bebe asks then, patting him on the back.

"I'm pretty fucked, actually," Kenny lets out a laugh and sits up. "Apart from not wanting my family to find out that I'm a no good faggot, I'm kind of failing pretty hard at it."

"Kenny, you're not a _faggot,_" Bebe rolls her eyes. "Y'know, that's the worst thing about being bisexual—no one thinks it's real. It's like it's impossible for people to wrap their heads around being able to be attracted to both. People are fucking dumb—if they can only have one, they want to impose it on the rest of us. The ultimate dick move."

And Kenny's suddenly hit by it, the fact that he _is_ attracted to both, that he's _had_ both, and that he'd never be able to choose between one or the other for the rest of his life. If someone told him that he couldn't ever play with a pair of tits again, he'd kill himself; if someone told him that he couldn't ever suck dick again, he'd probably go on a murdering spree.

Because he does like both. He likes boys, but he _still _likes girls. Being with a guy hasn't made that go away.

"You're fucking amazing," he tells Bebe then, coming forward and pulling her into a kiss (making sure, of course, to squash her chest against him as he does) before he gives her a smile and shoots up to his feet. He's overcome by a sudden burst of happy energy, and instead of jumping around like an idiot or doing cartwheels or something, he channels it into finishing the backdrop. Between them, he and Bebe work fast, and when they're done Wendy even compliments it.

Kenny's feeling pretty good about his life, as a matter of fact, until he's sent to the prop room for some fake Christmas trees and I subjected to one of the worst things he's ever seen. He's not two steps in before he hears the two very familiar voices of Stan and Butters, whispering like they're afraid of being found.

"I just wanna take a nap, Stan," Butters sighs softly, high and whining like it's something he'll never be able to do again.

"Man, you're gonna drop dead if you keep going like this," Stan mutters back. Kenny listens as he moves quietly around the room, looking for them. As it turns out, they're curled up in the far corner of the room, obstructed by high piles of boxes and a lot of crap that's making it very hard for Kenny to spy properly. From what he can see through a small gap in a stack of boxes, Stan is sitting with his back against the wall, while Butters is nestled back against him, eyes slipped shut as Stan pets over Butters' soft hair way… way too lovingly.

It actually makes Kenny's blood boil a little bit.

When Stan actually kisses Butters' neck, Kenny has to turn and leave. He's got this very displaced feeling that that should be _him_ making Butters feel better—then it occurs to him that he's been actively avoiding Butters for so long that he doesn't even know what's going on with him anymore. He could have a whole new set of issues that Kenny doesn't even know about.

It makes him even more irritated that he's annoyed with himself for not knowing what's going on with Butters, and soon he's back in the theater, gathering up his shit and leaving without so much as another word. He doesn't like dramatic swings of emotions, mostly because going from insanely happy to vengefully irate is kind of exhausting.

Stan and Butters are… what, fucking? Like, Kenny goes MIA and Gary doesn't want to mess around with Stan anymore (at least, that's what Kyle says), so they just decide to bone each other? People don't just cuddle in a prop room without penetration, Kenny doesn't care who you are. Stan and Butters are the biggest pussies Kenny knows, sure, but cuddling in public is just plain uncalled for.

He marches right into the library, where he knows Kyle has started living after school in an attempt to get his work done, and marches right up to where he's sitting and shuts his book right in front of him.

"Kenny, what the hell!" Kyle exclaims, earning him looks from all the other eggheads surrounding them.

"You and I need to have a talk about your husband," Kenny asserts. Kyle rolls his eyes and opens his book back up.

"You have approximately ten seconds to get out of my face before I club you over the head with this," he says.

"I think he and Butters are fucking," Kenny blurts out, remembering a little too late that Kyle doesn't know anything about him and Butters. Kyle just gives him a strange look, like he's halfway between believing Kenny and punching him in the mouth.

"Why in the fuck do you care?" he finally comes back with, and Kenny feels himself color ever so slightly.

"Your dick is my dick?" he offers. Kyle's eyes just get big as he's struck by the realization.

"Oh, my god, you have a hard-on for Butters, don't you?" he whispers, and Kenny immediately shushes him. "Dude, what the fuck! _Him_?"

"Oh, like you picked a fucking winner," Kenny scowls and flips him off. "Need I remind you how long it took the love of _your_ life to realize he wore his shirt inside out the other day?"

Kyle glares, but backs down—at least on this point. He still seems to be a little more flustered than usual about Kenny's inklings regarding Stan and Butters and who's putting their dick where.

"I mean," Kenny continues, "I know they've both said something about fooling around before, but I didn't think they were still doing it."

Kyle purses his lips and goes back to his book. "Whatever, man," he says. "I've got other shit to worry about."

Kenny sighs and leans back in his chair, "Well, I don't."

Kyle looks up at him again, this time a little more curiously. It's always hard to tell what's going on in Kyle's head, mostly because it's so liable to switch at a moment's notice. He shuts his book again, this time for good, and leans on it as he continues to study Kenny curiously.

"You really like him, don't you?" he asks then. Kenny just nods, and Kyle nods back, chewing on his thumbnail as he does. "I think I really like Stan, dude."

"I know," Kenny says, more softly than he intends. Kyle catches his eye again and Kenny can't help but notice that he looks a little scared.

"What?" he asks. "What do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" Kenny exclaims. "I thought you'd have some grand and glorious advice for me."

"What part of anything you know about me would make you think that, Kenny?" Kyle asks.

"Man, I don't fucking know!" Kenny groans. He doesn't even know that he was looking for advice to begin with. He knows what he wants—he wants to be with Butters again, to hang out with him and kiss him and help him with his chores and suck him off and… and fuck him and be there for him when he's all exhausted like he was earlier.

For the first time in a long time, Kenny wants to be there for someone else.

For the first time since he was eleven years old, Kenny wants to be someone's superhero again.

* * *

**Hello world! Short-ish chapter, but I wanted to get it done before the weekend (as usual). Still running with the slower updates over here (even though it hasn't been that long, oy...) and I can't say when I'll be back up to my normal speed again. I'm glad you guys are all sticking around with it, though-I seriously appreciate the crap out of it!**

**Chapter title is from We Are Golden by MIKA. This song is one of the first on any Butters playlist I make, and if you have time to watch the music video, you'll know why. :)**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing and everything... I know I say it every time, but it is awesome and it does mean a lot to get feedback. **

**Have a great weekend, everyone!**


	10. A Conventional Star in My Eye

**Chapter 10: A Conventional Star in My Eye**

It gets to the point where Kenny will just see Butters and Stan in the same room and get uncomfortable. Stan is nice and easy around just about everybody, which is probably closer to the type of guy Butters deserves to be with, but knowing that doesn't make Kenny any less irrationally upset when he sees Stan's hands stroke over an exhausted Butters' back as he hugs him much too close for much too long. All through the play that's all he saw: Stan holding Butters when he got too tired or lovingly petting his hair… Shit's not right. And it's exactly these kinds of injustices that keep a guy up watching infomercials on the couch at three in the morning.

That, and the fact that Kevin accidentally lit Kenny's mattress on fire last weekend while attempting to smoke his way through Kenny's stash. He's supposed to be sharing a room with Kevin right now, actually, but Kevin's room smells like cat piss (despite the fact that a cat has not crossed the McCormick threshold since Kenny was thirteen), stale nut fog, and old cheese, and there's a perfectly good couch downstairs. It's old and smells like every kind of alcohol and smoke you could imagine, but it's better than dealing with Kevin thrashing all night and waking up to his ear-shattering night terrors.

"Kenny, baby?" comes a hoarse voice from the stairs. It's his mom—she's been sick all week, barely able to deal with his dad's constant string of blatant insults about her supposed laziness. Coming from a man who's been out of work for almost a solid year, it's ironic to say the very least. However, this isn't AP Literature; this isn't a class, this isn't a story, it's just his life and right now there's no deeper meaning to the shit he has to go through.

"Yeah ma, it's me," he says. His mom pads over to him, clad in that same hideously old pair of pajamas, and sits beside him. Kenny likes it when it's just him and his mom. She's always had these higher hopes for him, always treated him better than Kevin or even Karen, and when she's around and sober and it's just the two of them, it's sort of pleasant. Kenny prays this is one of those times.

"What're you doin' up, baby?" she asks and drags her fingernails lightly over the expanse of Kenny's back.

"Just… a lot on my mind, I guess," he replies and hunches over a little bit. It's not a cop out, like answering "nothing", but it's not exactly admitting to the fact that he misses touching another boy's cock either.

"Oh, all right," his mom chuckles, amused. "I get it-you got that look in your eye that's got girl trouble written all over it." There's a slight pause before she tacks on a more serious, "You didn't get anyone pregnant, did you?"

"Ma!" he exclaims, sitting up now. Point a., that couldn't be further from either possibility or concern right now, and point b., he's only had one close call with Bebe before and that was last year and _nothing happened_, thank God.

"Don't take that tone with me, Kenny McCormick," she warns. "All you McCormick men seem to get it in your head that you can stick it wherever you want, and to top it all off the good lord made you all fertile as almighty hell."

"Wow," Kenny buries his face in his hands. "I'll take 'Things I Never Wanted to Hear My Mother Say' for a thousand, Alex…"

His mom just sits there, looking a little puzzled, before Kenny rolls his eyes and takes pity.

"It's like on Jeopardy, ma," he explains. "Like, when they pick the categories?"

She blinks once more before she rolls her eyes and dismisses him with a wave of her hand, "I always forget how fast you get to talkin' when you think no one's listening, young man. You been mouthin' off all smart like that ever since you were little."

"Really?" Kenny asks, eyebrows pinching together as he looks back at his mom with curiosity.

"Oh, sure," his mom nods. "Used to drive your dad nuts. In fact, I think he only tanned your hide for it a few times before you wizened up and started coverin' your mouth up with that scarf your granny made you. You're a smart kid, Kenny… smarter than any kid I ever thought would come outta me or your dad."

Kenny doesn't know what this feeling is that he has in his chest. He knows he's always been kind of a smart ass, but he didn't think anyone thought he was _smart_, because he certainly never did. Kyle and Wendy and Cartman—they're smart, intelligent, (mostly) forward thinking humans. Kenny's just quick on his feet and has an unnatural love for pissing off assholes and idiots.

"So, who is this girl?" his mom asks, and Kenny stops cold.

For a split second of complete idiocy, he goes over the repercussions of telling his mom that it's not a girl, but a boy on his mind, and remembers that this is his mom, not Sharon or Sheila. There's no saying whether or not she wouldn't come around eventually, but only after she got over the initial disgust. Who knows how long that would take.

"No one you know, ma, don't worry about it," he shifts, keeping his eyes intensely focused on the Magic Bullet infomercial flitting across the screen.

"She at least pretty?"

"Of course," Kenny insists automatically, a little offended on behalf of Butters that his mom would ever assume otherwise.

"Well, tell me about her!" his mom exclaims. "I wanna know about any girl who can get my baby boy all flustered like this."

Kenny shifts again and grabs at the back of his neck.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "She's blonde? She dances… she's pretty smart. And she's sweet. Really sweet. Probably the nicest person I've ever met." He refrains from tacking on the old "you'd like her", because even if Butters was a girl, he'd probably drive everyone in Kenny's family completely crazy. Butters is too sunshine and smiles for these people (with the exception of Karen, probably)—they'd torture the poor guy.

"She sounds nice," his mom offers after a few moments. "So, you wanna tell me how you fucked it up? I tell ya, you McCormick men got a knack for that too."

"Ma, Jesus!" Kenny exclaims, which of course gets him a smack upside the head. They're not what you'd call devout Catholics; at least, they're not until someone can get a good smack for taking the Lord's name in vain.

"I didn't do anything," Kenny mutters as he rubs the back of his head.

"Well, whatever it is that you didn't do, you'd better fix it or get over it or somethin'," his mom says as she stands. "I can't take you mopin' around here like you have been for the last couple days."

Kenny rolls his eyes. Of course he'd love to go over and fix whatever fuckups he made with Butters. He'd love to be back at the point where Butters touched him and let Kenny touch him. He wants to nap on Butters' chest again and help him clean the house again and just _be around him_ again. That's all that Kenny wants—to apologize and admit to Butters that he's a fucking idiot.

There's no way Butters will forgive him though, especially when he's got someone like Stan he can get comfort from. Most of this turmoil is coming from uncertainty: should he trick Butters into forgiving him, or should he just be relentlessly sincere and wear Butters down into forgiveness?

He literally has no idea, but he certainly doesn't want to discuss it with his mother. He bids her a quick and quiet goodnight and goes upstairs to Karen's room. She's asleep, but wakes when Kenny crawls into her bed. She offers him a pillow and a corner of her ratty old quilt, and already it's a thousand times better than sharing a room with Kevin. Karen's room at least smells like those cheap candles they found on clearance at Walmart, and she's managed not to burn the house down. That probably makes her one of the most competent people in this goddamned family.

The next day, he has to go to work. He's not exactly thrilled, although it _is_ extra time he gets to go over this Butters thing and that can't be a bad thing. He's far from devising a blue print or a set plan or anything like that, but the longer he gets to think about it, the better off the whole thing will probably go.

He ends up being at the store not all of two minutes, however, before the universe solves his problems for him and pushes Butters right through that front door. Without even thinking, Kenny slips off the stool and ducks behind the counter. It's absolutely useless, because Butters will grab a movie and come looking for someone to ring him up, and then it'll be obvious that Kenny's hiding from the only person on the planet he no longer wants to hide from.

He can't move, though. He's just stuck down on the floor, staring up at the collection of colorful gum stuck under the counter and wondering what exactly brought him to this point in his life. Butters moves quietly through the store and makes an uncharacteristically quick decision. Soon he's at the counter, clearing his throat and shuffling his feet.

"Ke-Kenny?" he pipes up, voice low and thick with something foreign in it. "Kenny, I know you're down there. Please, I just wanna check out a movie. I won't bother you or nothin', I swear."

This pulls at Kenny's heartstrings, makes his chest hurt and his gut feel like it's rotting right out of his body. He stands and barely looks Butters in the face before he's overcome with crushing guilt. He looks like he hasn't slept in days, all sallow and greasy like he's the walking dead.

"Jesus," Kenny breathes. "Butters, are you feeling okay?"

"Huh?" Butters blinks slowly.

"You look like shit," Kenny frowns as he scans the movie, _Hello Dolly!,_ and punches Butters' phone number into the computer.

"Oh," Butters shakes his head a bit. "I reckon I probably overexerted myself with the play an' all… I woke up Saturday real sick."

"Shit, really?" Kenny pulls a face. "That's no way to start off Christmas break."

"Aw, I reckon I've had worse," Butters shakes his head and yawns. It turns into a pretty pitiful whine and Kenny leans over, again without thinking, to stroke over Butters' cheek. Butters' eyebrows pinch into a frown as he backs away, looking at Kenny skeptically, in a way that only makes Kenny feel even worse than before.

"Butters, I'm so sorry," he says softly. Butters doesn't look like he processes this entirely, just has this woozy sort of wobble that makes him quickly ask where the bathroom is. To his credit, he does wait until he's safely locked inside to hurl. Kenny's not in there with him, but he's standing outside at the door, grimacing at all the horrible sounds coming from inside. He hates hearing other people in pain.

"Hey, who the hell let you leave the house if you've been puking?" Kenny knocks on the door lightly. The only answer he gets is a flushing sound, followed quickly by the sink running and the cool scrape of paper towels being yanked from the dispenser. Butters emerges then, more pale and sickly than before, and almost immediately stumbles into Kenny's arms. He's hot—hotter than usual. Like, hospital-grade fever hot.

And Kenny's not entirely sure what to do about it… apart from hold him close and pet his damp hair and tell him that everything's okay.

"Come on," he says and starts guiding him back toward the counter. It's an uncomfortable stool, but it's the only place to sit that isn't in the manager's office, and Kenny doesn't want to deal with that jag right now.

"I thought," Butters starts as Kenny helps him up onto the stool. "Kenny, I thought you hated me."

"What?" Kenny's eyebrows fly up on his forehead. He knew what he did was shitty, but fuck. "Dude, I don't think I could ever hate you. Anyone who hates you is the dictionary definition of a bag of shit, okay? You're way too nice for anyone to _hate_ you."

Butters moans and leans over so he can hide his face in his arms, and for a second Kenny's not sure if he's going to throw up again.

"Look, if anything you should hate me, okay?" Kenny continues. "I bitched out of fucking around with you over a text message, dude. That's the douchiest thing I think I've ever done, and do you remember me as a kid?"

"Aw, you weren't so bad," Butters sniffs and looks up, his blue eyes foggy but somehow earnest underneath it all. "In fact, you didn't turn into such a smarmy butthole until middle school."

"Ah," Kenny shifts, a bit taken aback, and grabs at the back of his neck. Butters is one of _those_ sick people, isn't he?

"Is that," Butters sniffs and sits up. "Is that when you started thinkin' you might like boys? 'cause lots of people turn into right fuckfaces when they realize somethin' like that."

"Uh, yeah I guess," Kenny shrugs. "You never did, though," he points out, like it'll help.

Butters returns with a bitter laugh, "That's 'cause I had everybody tellin' me what I was years before I ever even knew what _bi-curious_ was… callin' me a _faggot_ or a _nelly_ or a _queer_ before I even knew boys likin' other boys could actually happen."

Leave it to Butters to have a raving homosexual for an elementary school teacher and still manage not to make it out of childhood without knowing what exactly being gay entailed.

"We were fucking awful to you, dude," Kenny shakes his head, but he doesn't reach out and touch Butters like he wants. "Me especially, though. I'm so fucking sorry."

Butters sniffs at that and shrugs his shoulders. "That's all right, Ken," he says. "I know I can be a little exhausting if I'm not careful… Jeez, this room's awful spinny." He concludes the statement by thudding his head back against the counter.

"Christ, Butters," Kenny sighs and rubs a hand over his back. Butters moans at this and arches up into it—he's almost too hot to touch. "All right, you know what? We're taking you home."

Butters doesn't respond with words so much as he responds with a drawn out moan that Kenny supposes has some significance.

"Come on," Kenny says softly and keeps rubbing his hands over Butters' tired muscles. "Where're your keys?"

Butters doesn't resist, just fishes them out of his pocket and dangles them limply to the side. Kenny grabs both them and the movie and helps Butters to his feet, standing close by just in case his legs decide to give out or something. He's in pretty fucking awful shape.

"Did you—" Butters begins as Kenny gets to the car and unlocks it. "Did you get my movie?"

"Oh, yeah," Kenny gives a little shake of his head and hands the case to Butters, who promptly hugs it to his chest and starts humming what Kenny presumes is a song from the movie. They get in the car and Kenny drives quickly back to the Stotch house. It's a Wednesday in the middle of the day, so naturally no one's really on the road. When they get to Butters' house, it appears that there's no one home.

"Man, what the hell?" Kenny asks, shaking his head. "You could've been here sleeping."

"Why would I do that?" Butters mutters, eyes shut and still clutching the movie to his chest like it's a life preserver.

"Because you're sick?" Kenny offers, but Butters just shakes his head.

"I'm not," he says in an attempt to be reassuring. "I'm bored so I went to rent _Hello, Dolly!_ Because it's so good."

Kenny just rolls his eyes and helps Butters out of the car and into the house. Getting him up the stairs proves to be entertaining to say the least, but once they're in Butters' room and Butters is back on his bed, Kenny feels about a thousand times better. He even sets up Butters' laptop so he can watch the movie.

"Have you ever seen it?" Butters asks.

"Oh, uh… no," Kenny shakes his head as he ignores the open word documents and firefox pages.

"You should," Butters moans a little and attempts to sit up. "You should watch it with me."

Kenny glances quickly at the golden sequin-clad Barbra Streisand on the cover and winces.

"No offense, dude, it looks like about the gayest thing I've ever seen," he says.

"Good!" Butters exclaims. "You already have something in common."

Kenny chuckles a bit and rubs his hand over the back of Butters' neck. He melts into the touch and slumps against Kenny, curling into him and muttering feverish little pleas of "don't leave me". They're so pathetic that Kenny has to comply, so he kicks off his shoes and shucks his sweater to settle in for the afternoon. It occurs to him that he should call work, tell the manager that something came up, but he can't be bothered to fish his phone out of his pocket and do so.

"Hey, I'm gonna get you some water," Kenny says softly and kisses Butters on the top of the head. Butters whines and holds onto Kenny tighter. "Hey, come on, you need water. You just threw up. I promise I'll be back, okay?"

This gets Butters to relinquish his grip. He pauses the movie at Butters insistence that he not miss a thing and flies downstairs. He gets a big glass of water and searches through the cupboards for some aspirin or something. He settles on ibuprofen and bounds back up to Butters. Kenny may not be able to cook or anything, but he's good at fetching.

"Here," he says when he finds Butters drawing patterns over his comforter with his fingertips. He holds out the water and gets two pills out of the bottle, handing them all to Butters. "That'll help with your fever."

Butters nods vaguely and takes both pills, swallowing them down easily before timidly sipping at the water. Kenny settles in next to him again, happier than anything when Butters cuddles up to him again and pushes play on his computer.

The movie is okay. Kenny enjoys it more than he thought he would, but he's pretty sure Butters falls asleep about five minutes in and remains asleep until the final scene, when Kenny shifts to get up and go pee.

"Aw, damn," Butters mumbles as he rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Did I sleep through the whole thing?"

"Yeah," Kenny nods. He seems a little more lucid now, at least. "How're you feeling?"

"Like crap," Butters laughs a little. "Better'n this morning, though, thanks."

Kenny smiles back and nods. Butters moans a bit and holds his pillow to his chest, and by the time Kenny gets back from the bathroom it looks like he's fallen asleep again.

"Butters?" he asks reservedly, and Butters shoots up immediately.

"Hey, hi," Butters mumbles. "I'm gonna take a shower. Don't… don't go anywhere?"

It's such a sweet and simple request, Kenny can't say no. He sits on Butters' bed and waits patiently as Butters goes through a quick shower. It's strange, being back around him like this. Kenny was totally willing to spend the rest of his life groveling and here Butters is pretending that nothing ever happened… or, at least, acting like what Kenny did wasn't as lousy as it was.

He lies back on the bed and stares up at the glow in the dark stars on Butters' ceiling. It's not that he's not thrilled as all hell that Butters still wants to talk to him, but Butters should be at least a_ little_ mad, right? Kenny treated him like shit—he should at least be holding it over his head or something, illness or no. Kenny's pretty sure it's not just his Catholic guilt either; he's never had a problem with that before, why would he now?

Butters comes back in the room, clad only in a towel and looking a hundred times better.

"Jeez, that was just what I needed, I think," Butters laughs a little and goes to open his dresser. Kenny starts to wonder if Butters knows he's a tease, or if he really is just clueless to the fact that parading around in nothing but a towel is intensely arousing.

"Uh, yeah," is all Kenny can manage to say. He gets just the slightest glimpse of Butters' ass before he bends to slip on a pair of Mickey Mouse briefs and discards the towel altogether. Kenny gulps back a lump in his throat, hard.

"Hey," Butters turns around, still only in his underwear as he pulls a Muppets t-shirt over his head. "You think we could get somethin' to eat? I'm awful hungry an' I don't feel much like cookin'."

"You, uh," Kenny clears his throat and pulls a pillow over his crotch, just for good measure. "Do you think you can keep it down?"

"Oh, yeah," Butters nods and puts his hands on his hips. "I gotta eat somethin'. Like, soup maybe? We could go get some soup at the store or somethin'."

"Aw, dude, fuck that," Kenny shakes his head and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He's got about half a dozen missed calls and a few voicemails from work, but he ignores them all. He pulls up a text to Kyle, "Kyle's mom always keeps chicken soup in the freezer. Shit could cure AIDS if she'd just give up the recipe."

Butters just rolls his eyes and goes to his closet to get a pair of jeans. "Well, if she wants to let me have some, I'd sure be appreciative. Canned soup is makin' me feel a little woozy right now, actually."

"Shit, she'd piss herself," Kenny rolls his eyes. "Sheila's all about helping out less fortunate children. Why do you think she took in Gary?"

"Couldn't have been outta the goodness of her heart, huh?" Butters asks through a grin as he pulls on his jeans. Kenny stands and shakes his head, walking over to Butters and putting a hand on his shoulder. Butters looks at him with a little smile on his face, one that's daring him to take it further. Kenny's never been one to back out of a dare, so he leans forward and pecks a little kiss to the end of Butters' nose.

It's a sweet moment, a kind that Kenny didn't exactly think he was capable of. Butters looks a little surprised too, but apparently he gets over it quickly. He wraps his arms around Kenny's neck and brings him into a hard, starved kiss. Not that Kenny's not appreciative, but he definitely was not expecting to be so well received.

"So, uh," Butters pulls back, chuckling a bit at himself. "How 'bout that soup, huh?"

Kenny just nods and goes in for another kiss. He can't believe how much he missed this, how incredible Butters' lips actually feel against his. And god, how could he begin to forget how amazing it is to have Butters Stotch back him rather forcefully into a door?

"Fuck, I missed you," Kenny mutters as Butters pulls away to kiss at his neck.

"I'll bet," Butters chuckles as he sinks to his knees and starts in on the button of Kenny's jeans. He's got Kenny's dick out and in his hand before Kenny can even register what's happening, and immediately moves to stop him.

"Dude, 'the hell?" he pants softly. "I thought you were sick."

Butters shrugs, "I bet this'll make me feel better," and with that sucks Kenny into his mouth. Kenny's fingernails bite into the paint on the door as his entire body seizes. It is ungodly how much Kenny missed this. Butters makes it all quick and very efficient, like he's checking off something on his to-do list, and even when Kenny's left boneless against the door insisting that he reciprocate, Butters unsteadily shakes his head and stands. He's a little wobbly on his feet, and for a second Kenny's unsure of whether or not he's going to—

"Oh, no," Butters slaps a hand over his mouth. Kenny doesn't catch on quick enough to move, and before they know it Butters sort of just… throws up. Except there's nothing in his stomach except bile Kenny's come.

And now it's all mixed in a little puddle between them, soaking into the carpet.

"Aw, jeez," Butters mumbles and rubs the heel of his hand against his temple.

"Probably a good thing you didn't eat anything," Kenny says and tucks himself back into his pants. He looks up at Butters, who's swaying on his feet, and frowns a bit. "Dude, you're _sick_."

"Come on, like I knew that was gonna happen," Butters moans and screws his eyes shut.

"I meant that you're sick-sick," Kenny rolls his eyes. "Ill, unhealthy, infirmed—"

"I'm not though," Butters shakes his head. "I'm just… tired. And queasy."

He punctuates this with a moan as he clutches at his stomach, and Kenny feels a little at a loss. He wraps his arm around Butters awkwardly and leads him back to the bed, entirely unsure of what the hell he's supposed to do.

"Kenny, c'mon," Butters groans as he pulls a pillow to his face. "Don't… don't make a fuss."

"I'm not making a fuss, dude," Kenny shakes his head. "What in the hell makes you think you're not sick, dude?"

"My folks'd tell me if I was sick," Butters frowns a bit and settles further into the bed. "I just over exerted myself, that's all."

"Yeah, and when sucking someone's dick is enough to over exert you?" Kenny poses. "That means you're sick, dude."

Butters doesn't respond apart from scowling a little and sticking out his tongue. Then he sort of falls asleep and Kenny doesn't know where to go from there. He doesn't want to leave, because he doesn't want Butters to think he just up and left him or anything, but staying doesn't quite feel right either.

"Hey," Kenny says softly, shaking Butters' shoulder gently. Butters jerks out of his haze and looks at Kenny, confused. "Hey, I'm gonna go grab you some soup. I'll be back in a bit, okay?"

Butters gives a lazy nod and hides his face in his pillow. He's asleep before Kenny even stands, and snoring by the time Kenny's cleaned up the mess by the door.

Kenny leaves the Stotch house more confused than he's been in a long time. He walks toward Kyle's house, head buzzing and utterly unable to piece together what in the fuck just happened. He thinks Butters forgave him? He can't really tell. All he knows is that he got a blowjob and that it was wonderful, and then narrowly avoided getting puked on. Also, he's pretty sure he no longer has a job.

Today has been one of his stranger days.

His feet don't stop when he gets to Kyle's house. Stan's car is parked in Kyle's driveway, which makes Kenny roll his eyes. He doesn't feel like dealing with Stan right now, especially when he and Butters have been doing their thing and Kenny and Butters just kind of did their thing and is it okay for Kenny and Butters to do their thing while Stan and Butters do theirs and _holy fucking dick _this is confusing as shit. No, Kenny keeps walking until he's all the way home, until he sees the crappy old truck out front and the old burnt up mattress on the lawn. It's all just a steaming pile of shit, but at least he's safe here from confusing boys and their sexual advances.

In the living room, Kevin and Karen are on the couch, watching Indiana Jones in a rare moment of peace. Kenny sits between them, hands on his knees and spine impeccably straight. Maybe if he acts like nothing's wrong, they won't notice an—

"What crawled up your cunt and died?" Kevin drones, not even bothering to look away from the TV as he smacks his gum way too loudly.

"Fuck, really Kevin?" Karen snaps.

"Well, look at him," Kevin scowls gesturing to him vaguely. "He's got that look in his eye like Maury Povich just told him he's the father of some hood rat's babies."

Karen heaves a tired sigh and shakes her head, in a silent plea with whatever gods above that they'll just send a lightning bolt down and put Kevin out of his misery.

"Mom says you fucked up some shit with a girl," Kevin shrugs and sniffs, still not looking away from the TV. Karen looks at Kenny curiously, cocking her head as if to ask him if that's true. Kenny just shrugs and folds his arms over his chest.

"Okay, just a hypothetical, but," he takes a breath. "Okay, say you broke up with a girl over text."

"Oh god, _really_ Kenny?" Karen grimaces.

"Yeah, that's fucked up, man," Kevin shakes his head.

"Well, say you realized later that it was a mistake, and you wanted her back," Kenny continues, ignoring both Karen's reproachful glare and Kevin's smug amusement. "You'd expect her to be pissed beyond comprehension, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Kevin nods, whistling loudly.

"I'd never even talk to you again," Karen agrees.

"So what would you do," Kenny begins and takes a deep breath. "Ugh, so it's not a normal thing for her to forgive you the first time she talks to you and, like, go down on you two seconds later, right?"

Karen makes a disgusted noise and claps her hands over her ears as Kevin lets out a deep belly laugh.

"Hoo-boy," Kevin yelps. "Two words for you, son: daddy issues."

"Jesus Christ," Karen mutters and sinks down further into the cushions.

"It's totally a thing!" Kevin defends, finally looking over at them both. "Girls don't have good relationships with their dads so they spend the rest of their lives on their knees looking for any man to pat them on the head and tell them they're good girls. They may be psychotic, but fuckin' A, they will do anything you fucking say, drunk or no."

This makes Kenny's skin crawl, while it prompts Karen to hop up onto her feet and storm up the stairs without another word. She slams the door behind her, which makes Kevin shake his head and chuckle.

"Must be on her fucking rag or something," he says.

"Yeah, must be," Kenny agrees with a heavy dose of sarcasm. "Couldn't be the fact that you just openly admitted to taking advantage of girls you sleep with or anything."

"Ah, don't be such a queer," Kevin says, almost affectionately. "Especially when you just got head, fuck. Was she any good? Crazy chicks are always the best."

Kenny makes a claim that he suddenly feels very ill and immediately excuses himself. He goes up to Karen's room instead, where she's got all her cheap nail polish bottles dumped out on her carpet and she's searching frantically for the perfect color.

"Kevin's such a fuckhead sometimes," he offers. Karen doesn't look up, just gives a hum of agreement that Kenny takes as an invitation to come in. He sits down on the floor beside her, looking through some of the colors. He picks up a nice teal color and offers it to her, "I like this one."

"Have at it," she waves her hand as she pulls off one of her thick wooly socks to touch up the fuchsia on her toenails. "Check if it's lumpy, though."

Kenny glares at her, hoping she's gathering from it just how insane she is for suggesting such a thing. Granted, he spent years as a kid wanting to paint his nails with Karen, but his dad was already mortified enough that Kenny would have tea parties with her or, once, that he wore one of her dresses to one of them. He'd only been about seven when that happened, and he'd gotten roughed up so bad that he'd vowed never to do anything like that ever again.

Except… except he's never in bare feet or anything. And it looks like it's at least a little relaxing—Karen's gone from white-knuckling the bottle to holding it gently, sighing as she rests her chin on her knee and strokes the brush nice and even.

Decidedly, Kenny pulls off one of his big boots and sets it to the side, removing his graying white sock next. His feet are like the rest of him, sinewy and long, with a ridiculously high arch and prehensile toes that are good for picking up t-shirts and pens off the floor.

He opens the bottle and mimics Karen's posture and position carefully. The paint isn't chunky, like Karen warned it might be, and with a few clumsy strokes, the big toe on his right foot is covered in a translucent layer of shimmery teal.

Himself from three months ago is writhing in a pile of his own sick somewhere in the back of Kenny's head.

He pulls off his sock and boot from the other foot and repeats the process, not realizing until he's halfway through going over them again that Karen's staring at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing," Karen shakes her head and returns to her toes. "Except… if it's not a girl you've been seeing, I just wanted you to know you can tell me."

Kenny pauses for a second, horror settling deep in his belly before he remembers that this is Karen. She's far from thinking the sun shines out of his ass anymore, but she loves him no matter what. He clears his throat and continues with his clumsy artistry.

"Is it because I'm painting my toes?" he asks.

"No," Karen holds up a careful finger. "Because if it were a girl, you would've been talking about her the second you two went at it. If it's a boy… that actually makes a lot of sense. I mean, in this family? It explains why you're always so angry and why you're so shut off—"

"Okay, okay!" Kenny holds both his hands up. He looks toward the door and then back at Karen before he drops his voice, "It's a boy. It's, um… it's Butters. Stotch." He tacks on as an afterthought. Karen covers her smile with one of her hands, trying not to look as giddy as she obviously is.

"Karen," he warns.

"I'm sorry," she giggles a bit. "That's the most adorable thing I've ever heard."

Kenny rolls his eyes and extends his legs out in front of him, letting his toes dry.

It's strange seeing them done up like this, and decides that it's probably meant to make girls' toes look cuter, while it sort of just makes him look weird. He hasn't ruled out trying it on his fingers yet, though, but that's probably for another time. A time when seeing that wouldn't send his father into cardiac arrest.

"He should hate me, Karen," Kenny just sighs and wiggles his toes a little. Karen gives a thoughtful frown as she caps the polish bottle and moves to get a syrupy-looking clear one (fuck, what does that one do? Does he need it?). "I mean, he's just so… great, you know? He's so nice and sweet and he'd never do anything to hurt anyone else. And he's smart, too. Like no one gives him enough credit. Being with him just makes me want to be a better person, you know? And knowing that I felt like that and still _did _that to him… Why in God's name would he forgive me and take me back?"

"Okay, now that I know _who_ it is," she begins, "I hate to say it, but I think Kevin might be right. Not just daddy issues, but I mean… his parents are pretty messed up to him, aren't they? And, like, so is everyone else? He's probably one of those people who wants everyone to love him, and he's using sex to do that."

Kenny blinks a few times before verbalizing the only thought his brain will allow to form, "Whoa."

"Eh," Karen shrugs. "There was a marathon of Sex Rehab on yesterday. I can diagnose you, if you want."

"Uh, no thanks," Kenny chuckles.

"Are you sure?" Karen grins broadly. "Messiah complex?"

"Hey, save it for Psych 101, egghead," Kenny laughs and throws a cotton ball at her face. He does not have a messiah complex… whatever that is. He just feels like he needs to help people, like it's a compulsion, or something. He wants people to be happy and safe and _okay_—

"Oh shit!" he exclaims and grabs his socks, pulling them and his boots on as Karen warns him that he'll fuck up the polish. "Butters is sick, I was supposed to get him some soup. I told him I'd be back."

"You can't be everyone's hero, Kenny," Karen says very frankly, in a way that makes him raise an eyebrow and flip her off before he bolts out the door. He doesn't even say goodbye to Kevin before he's out of the house, making a mad dash back to Kyle's. Maybe everyone's gone by now and he can grab some of Sheila's soup in peace.

Except when he stops to tie his boots under a streetlight, he hears a suspicious cracking from somewhere above, followed by a searing pain as an icicle drops and pierces him through the back. The last thing he's aware of is that it drives right into his heart.

That and Butters won't be getting his soup.

* * *

**I'm back! I'm done with school and so now I can focus on my writing while I look high and how for gainful employment. Huzzah!**

**Thank you all for being patient, it means a lot. You're all so awesome, I can't even!**

**Chapter title from _Nellie McKay's_ version of _Wonderful Guy_.**


	11. If I Knew the Way I Would Take You Home

****TW: Suicide**

**Chapter 11: If I Knew the Way I Would Take You Home**

Kenny never did come back. Not that Butters was lucid enough to notice at that point, mind, but after a full night's sleep and a bowl of Cheerios the next morning, he's a little more aware.

Amazingly enough, once he thinks on it, Butters finds that he actually isn't bothered by it. What with how strange Kenny's been acting lately, plus the inscrutable relationship he has to his gay side, it's not at all surprising that he's just sort of up and disappeared again.

No, he doesn't care about that. He'd even go so far as to say he's indifferent to all of it by now.

He's stupid for thinking Kenny would stick around in the first place. After all, isn't it Butters' fault for being a dumb slut? That's why all of this started, because he can't keep a guy's dick out of his mouth long enough to exchange pleasantries, much less talk about the implications of what they're doing with each other.

It's been almost twenty-four hours since he's seen or heard from Kenny when Stan calls him. For a brief moment, he feels a little swell of cheer in his gut as he answers with a chipper tone to his voice. Seeing Stan might be just the thing he needs right now—when all else fails, Stan will always be there.

Except Stan's not calling to hang out or come over; he's calling to say that Gary's gone missing, that no one knows where he is, and if he sees or hears from him to say so immediately. "Please, dude—I know you probably know as much about it as anyone else, but I mean… his mom and dad are worried and so am I. Hello? Are you okay?"

Butters makes a noncommittal noise of affirmation before hanging up and crawling under his covers. If he snuggles under where Kenny rested yesterday, he can still smell the faint scent of cigarettes and boy on his sheets and pillow.

He watches _Hello, Dolly!_ twice before his mom comes up to check on him.

"This is how you're going to spend your Christmas break?" she asks, eyebrows perched high on her forehead. "The least you could do is clean up this pigsty if you're going to lock yourself up here. If we get black mold because you can't keep your room nice and tidy, you'll be grounded into your thirties, young man."

Butters looks listlessly from her to where his towel from yesterday afternoon is pooled on the otherwise immaculate floor. The worst part is that he can see Kenny's perfect, wonderful face trying to hold back a laugh so clearly, like it's etched into his brain or something. He likes that Kenny tries to laugh and make light of his little screw-ups, even if it's sort of counter-productive.

"Sorry, mom," he mutters and slides out from under his covers, barely energized enough to walk over to the towel, much less pick it up.

"And you're still in your pajamas…" his mother shakes her head. "Honestly, young man, I am at my wit's end with you. After all your father and I have done to try to turn you into a hardworking young adult, too. Just wait until he hears that you're not even dressed for a day that is _already_ half over."

She leaves without another word, just an overly tired huff that makes Butters' eyes slip shut as he walks back to his bed and settles into it. He's not sure when he falls asleep again, only that he wakes up a few times to pee (and once to eat a cold cheese sandwich that he doesn't even finish), and soon it's the next day.

Butters knows he's not sick anymore, but he still feels like crap. He thinks this might be why he repeats this cycle of nearly endless sleep twice more before it's Christmas Eve and his mom physically drags him out of bed to go to midnight mass.

"If you think your little act is going to get you out of going to church, then you must realize that it'll get you out of going to Heaven too, young man," his mom says as she shoves him into the bathroom and stomps back to her room to get ready. Somewhere in the back of his mind is Kenny saying, "I don't think God cares how clean you are, just as long as you show up."

And then he remembers that that's not Kenny's voice, but Dolly Parton's, and that he shouldn't have fallen asleep watching _Steel Magnolias_ last night… or yesterday morning… whenever that was.

It all, of course, takes a turn for the strange, when he imagines Kenny with Dolly Parton's boobies and advocating to Olympia Dukakis that "he hasn't left his house without Lycra on his thighs since he was fourteen." And when the image of Kenny spread out on a bed in nothing but a garter belt and fishnets fails to rev up his engine, he knows there's something wrong.

When he gets out of the shower, he tries to call Kenny, but no one answers—not even Kevin, who's answered Kenny's phone a few times before (it almost makes Butters douse his phone in Kerosene and light it on fire every single time it happens). He wouldn't be surprised if Kenny was ignoring his calls. Butters does tend to get a little clingy with friends, and even if Kenny thought so he wouldn't say anything to him directly. Kenny's a nice guy, always pumping Butters with compliments every chance he gets.

_"Your hair is so soft."_

_"You feel so good in my hand." _

_"Has anyone ever actually tried to… y'know, fit your dick in them?" _

Okay, so that last one probably wasn't meant as a compliment, but all Butters had gotten out of it was that he has a big dick, and while he may not be an insufferable douchenozzle, that's still nice to hear.

"Sheesh Kenny," Butters mumbles to himself as he buttons up his nice, dark red shirt, "If you'd wanted to have sex, you shoulda said somethin'."

He looks at himself in the mirror, then, as if to silently ask his own reflection if he'd _really_ just talked to himself like that, and realizes this is the first time he's seen himself in about a week.

He's thinner. Not by much, but he can definitely see that the little paunch of baby fat around his gut has diminished considerably, as has the boyish chub of his cheeks. After nearly a week of stress with the play, followed by almost two days of purging anything but water and Gatorade from his system, and _then _followed by an exclusive diet of saltines and cheese sandwiches, it shouldn't be as surprising as it is.

He knew that wasn't the belt notch he normally used.

There are also dark bags under his eyes and his lips are pale and cracked, and if he looks closely at his hair, it's starting to get dry and broomlike at the edges, not entirely unlike Kenny's.

It's his dad who comes to fetch him this time, presumably because his mom is too fed up with him for words. He's caught looking at himself, and sort of stands stock still, like a frightened deer in the headlights, as he waits for his dad to say something.

"Butters, will you hurry up?" he implores. "It's a nice shirt and some slacks, for Pete's sake. And what is that face you're making? You're going to church—if you're not going to respect me and your mother, at least respect God while you're in His house."

Butters looks down at the floor, "Yessir."

Idiot… there he is worrying about Kenny and how he looks, all sorts of sinful things, when he should be focused on going to church and thanking baby Jesus for being born and dying for him.

Or maybe that's Easter.

Jeez, is he so queer that he can't even get his holidays straight anymore?

"Hetero, dude," Kenny's voice rings faintly in his ears. "You can't get it hetero anymore. Gotta be PC, come on."

Even when he's not here, he's still witty.

Why isn't that gorgeous, witty man here right now?

Butters looks at himself in the mirror one more time before shaking his head at himself, certain that what's reflected back at him is the only explanation he'll ever need.

When they get to the church, they share a pew with Stan and his mom. Stan has to actively tell Butters to sit next to him, something that didn't even occur to Butters to do until it had been pointed out that he could.

"Hey, man," Stan says softly as his mom and Butters' parents start chatting beside them. Stan looks concerned, probably because it's been a few days and still no one's heard from Gary. Only, he gets a look at Butters' face and gives a loud whistle. "You look like shit… are you okay?"

Butters looks over at him and shrugs. He doesn't feel too much like talking right now, but he does appreciate that Stan scoots a little closer to him. They can't do anything more than that, being that they're in church and their parents are right there and everything, but the heat of Stan's thigh against his is just enough to keep him grounded.

When Stan gets up about fifteen minutes into the service under the feeble excuse that he needs to pee, Butters gives so few fucks about what his parents might say and follows him out of the church. They don't say anything, even though it's colder than anything outside just about now and Butters just wants to be back under his covers and hidden from the world. He doesn't think he could tell Stan that.

Then Stan pulls a flask out of his jacket and takes a swig, offering it to Butters immediately after. Butters takes it and gulps down a large mouthful of what tastes like cheap whiskey. If anything, it warms him up a little and enables him to function past his initial 'fuck, it's cold' reaction.

They walk over to the graveyard at the side of the church, where Eric and, suspiciously, Kyle are huddled together under a dead tree, all bundled up and smoking their cigarettes.

"Aw, fuck, you brought Butters?" Eric groans. The words don't hit Butters like they normally would, but he does have to remind himself that crying right now will only lead to more ridicule, and Stan would only further question why he's even friends with Butters in the first place.

"Be cool, man," Stan frowns. "No one deserves fucking midnight mass." He plucks the cigarette from Kyle's fingers and takes a drag. Butters never thought Stan smoked, y'know, because of football and everything. Something tells Butters that the last week's probably been stressful enough to get him to start, though.

He's taken a pull off of Kenny's cigarettes in the past, just a few times. It's not all that calming, except for that it's something to do with your hands.

"Either of you got an extra I could have?" he asks. The three of them look at him like he's got tentacles coming out of his nose. Even Butters has to admit he sounds stupid asking, if not for the actual question than definitely for the way his voice scratches against his dry throat. It almost feels like he's never spoken before.

Surprisingly enough, it's Eric who offers up his pack of Marlboros and fancy metal lighter. He lights the cigarette and takes a drag, handing the lighter back to Eric and immediately regretting his decision. These taste kind of gross, and he'd actually take those gag-worthy Pall Mall Menthols that Kenny smokes and that stupid disposable lighter with the American flag on it any day.

Butters thinks he may be in love with white trash, and he can't even find it in his heart of hearts to care.

If this is love, it's pretty dumb.

"Dude, seriously," Stan gives him a concerned look again. "Are you okay?"

Butters just shrugs and brushes at a bit of snow on the tombstone right behind him so he can sit down. It's colder on his boys than he'd like, but he's not sure he'll ever use them again, so that's all right.

Surprise of all surprises, they start talking about Gary after they're done ogling Butters.

"Maybe he's in Utah, starting anew or something," Kyle suggests.

"He wouldn't go to Utah," Stan shakes his head, taking one last drag before handing the cigarette back to Kyle. "I mean, he doesn't hate his religion or anything like that, but I don't think he'd go to the fucking motherland, you know what I mean?"

"Maybe he killed himself," Eric chips in helpfully, which only makes Stan punch him hard in the beefy shoulder.

"What the fuck would you say a fucking thing like that for, you _fucking fuck_?" he punctuates the last two words with another two swift punches to the same spot, and Eric gives an indignant "Ay!"

"Relax, Jesus!" Kyle interjects, moving to stand between them. It's an odd sight, to say the very least, but Butters supposes Christmas miracles come in all shapes and sizes. "No one killed themselves; don't have a shit fit."

"How do you know?"

Butters doesn't even realize that's his voice until he glances up and sees his three companions looking back at him like he's insane for the second time that night.

"Butters…" Stan starts in softly, and Butters just looks back down at where his nice shoes are sitting stark against the white snow.

"What?" he hears himself ask. "I think it's a fair question. No one knows what happened, right?" He looks up again and something in his brain won't let him register the looks on his friends' faces, so he just keeps talking, "Kids like that do themselves in all the time. Always the ones we least expect, right?"

"Dude," Stan shakes his head a bit. "Dude, chill out. Cartman's just being a cock. No one killed themselves. Gary knows better than that, all right?"

"I don't think it's a matter of knowin' better, Stan," Butters shakes his head, that old odd feeling bubbling up into his gut and chest full force. "Some people just realize that sometimes stuff doesn't get better an' look for a way out. No reason to keep livin' if you don't want to anymore."

Heck, he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought of letting himself fall off the roof while he was cleaning the gutters, or hadn't noticed how nice the thin edge of a knife looks against the greenish-blue veins on his arm. Who hasn't thought about it before, right?

The words must have more gravity than he thought, because immediately Stan is in front of him, cold hands nearly hissing as they come into contact with Butters' piping hot cheeks, and he's checking Butters' eyes like he's looking for signs of a concussion. Then he does something dumb and unthinkably inappropriate, which is kiss him on the lips in front of Eric and Kyle.

They don't say anything, though, for which Butters thinks he might be grateful. He's not sure.

He's not sure of anything anymore. Even Stan's lips on his aren't enough to pull him back into himself and get him smiling again. However, he does drop his cigarette (if the light sizzle at their feet is any indication) and lean into Stan when he breaks the kiss. He tries to pretend that it's Kenny holding him, but Stan's too solid and too thick for it to work. Stan's hands are bulky and square as they stroke through his hair, and he smells like nice soap that costs more than a buck a bar.

He wants Kenny, and Kenny couldn't be clearer about not wanting him.

Just like Stan wants Gary back, or like Kyle wants Stan. Stan will probably get what he wants, and so will Kyle.

At the end of the day, nobody wants or needs Butters around, unless they need a punching bag. There are two things Butters never fails to excel at: fucking up and being treated like shit. Kenny's offered him a veritable gauntlet of tasks to prove that he's above proficient in both skills.

"I think I'm gonna walk home," Butters says to himself more than the others, but Stan catches him by the sleeve before he can go.

"Let me go with you," he says, but Butters listlessly manages to shake his head.

"I'll be fine, I promise," he offers a smile at that, but it must be pretty weak. Even Eric looks a little worried, and he has actively suggested to Butters that he kill himself in the past.

That's what they're worried about, right? Just because Butters can see why someone would do it, understand someone's state of mind about it, now they're going to call him every five minutes just to make sure he still has a pulse. Like their lives would be any worse for the wear if Butters just up and flitted out forever. The only reason they're even concerned is because the thought of someone committing suicide is often more frightening than the thought of going the rest of your life without that person.

Trying to wrap your head around someone knowing they could take their own life is almost more difficult than coming to terms with death, isn't it?

"I'll text you when I get home, I swear," Butters says and lets Stan kiss him again. He 'oof!'s when Stan pulls him into a bone-crushing hug, and almost starts crying when Stan's voice curls into a soft "I love you, dude" in his ear.

He loves Gary, he loves Kyle, and now he loves Butters? Butters holds back a laugh, because even someone like Stan couldn't have that much love to give. It just doesn't seem possible.

Butters doesn't say it back, either. He wants to, almost more than anything, but lips won't work and his voice is dead in his throat. Instead he gives them all a lazy raise of his hand in lieu of a full wave and turns to walk back to his house. It's not a bad walk, it being South Park and all, and when he gets back he immediately goes up to his room.

He peels off his nice clothes and pulls out his phone and texts Stan, _"Home"_ and leaves it at that. He sits at his desk in nothing but his undies and thin white under shirt. He pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, and the moment he makes the first stroke onto the sheet, the words just pour out.

He likes boys.

He's sorry for being a terrible son, sorry for lying, sorry for being nothing but a constant disappointment.

He loves everyone and he's just… sorry.

He pulls out a second piece of paper, this one written to Stan. He loves Stan too, and writes down everything he couldn't say back at the church, about how nice it is that he kissed him and how he's always been such a good friend to him, even if Butters was always a pretty shitty friend in return. He asks very nicely, he thinks, for Stan to hide his porn from his parents, if in fact they've yet to find it. Not that it'll matter too much anyway.

Butters doesn't bother writing to Kenny. The last thing he wants to do is annoy him with this too.

_Like, great—first the kid won't get off my nuts, now he tells me he loves me._

That's not how Butters wants to go out.

Fuck.

_Go Out. _

He feels like there's a little more stigma and fear attached to that phrase, the idea, and the concept. It'll be quick, and then he'll never have to deal with any of this ever again, right?

He gets up from his desk and goes back to his mirror. He can see the faint scars on his legs and arms, the ones he used to make himself, the ones he quickly dismisses as gardening accidents, the ones Kenny's looked at and traced over many times, like he knows what they are but won't say anything. He looks at his goony face and his messy, straw-like hair. He likes it like this, if only because it looks like Kenny's, or Tweek's.

But, the last thing he wants is his parents to be reminded of what a no-good yippie fuckup he was, so he grabs a pair of scissors out of his desk, and, positioning the trash can underneath him, starts cutting chunks of his hair until it stops curling at the tops of his ears and at the bottom of his neck. Then, deciding to leave no stone unturned, goes to get the electric razor out of his mom and dad's room and tidy it up.

It's funny, but with this short cropped hair… well, when he blurs his eyes and looks at his reflection, he almost looks like a fairer version of his dad. They have the same face shape, the same teeth, the same nose—a dye job and Butters could easily pass for a younger version of him.

Butters drops the razor onto the counter and heads back to his room. He gets dressed back up in his church clothes and neatly tidies the rest of his room, makes his bed… just in case. Like he's moving through a checklist, he goes into the medicine cabinet and grabs a brand new razor blade out of its plastic casing. The edge is silvery and thin, so neat and pristine. Butters sits on the edge of the bathtub and turns the blade over in his fingers a few times before he rolls up the sleeve on his left arm and drags the flat of the edge along the bugged out veins under his skin. His nerves make his hand twitch and jump, the feeling cool and all-too familiar.

He started and stopped cutting within the span of a month back when he was thirteen—it had ended up hurting later much more than he'd thought, one of the cuts got pretty badly infected, and at the end of the day it just wasn't worth trying to hide them.

People pretended to care when they saw it, got him help and urged him to stop and all that, and Butters has spent the last couple of years deluding himself into thinking that he still cares about being alive.

When the blade breaks his skin, Butters has a brief moment of panic when he watches a few drops of red splash onto the pristine white tile below. He can't help it—he thinks about how sore his parents will be when they see the mess.

Luckily, that's not something he has to worry about anymore.

**oooooo**

Stan is a little uneasy letting Butters go, but he looks back at Kyle and Kyle gives him a smile and it's all okay for a little bit. He leans in close to Kyle and takes the cigarette from him again, inhaling and ignoring the way that Cartman scoffs at them.

"Hey," Kyle laughs a little and takes the cigarette back. "That's mine."

"Not anymore," Stan sticks out his tongue, smiling a bit.

"Oh, Jesus fucking Christ," Cartman rolls his eyes and flicks his cigarette into the snow. "If you fags are gonna start making ass babies right here, I'm out."

"Mm, good," Stan's face splits into a full grin as he wraps his arms around Kyle's waist and pulls him close. Kyle laughs, but goes along with it, mostly because they'll do just about anything to get rid of Cartman.

Cartman makes some gagging noises, and when they start making exaggerated grabs for each other, he actually flips them off and makes loud declarations about how he's going to leave.

"No, not there!" Kyle yelps and curls in on himself when Stan prods him.

"Fuck off, you grabbed my tit, fucker!" Stan chuckles and keeps poking.

"That's my appendix scar, knock it off!" Kyle manages to get out through a fit of laughter, and after declaring this the gayest thing he's ever seen, Cartman finally up and leaves. Only now Stan and Kyle are kind of wrapped up in each other, arms draped over one another like they're holding each other or something, even though they've stopped doing… well, whatever it was that they were doing.

Stan catches Kyle's gaze and feels his heart leap up in his throat. He's always loved Kyle's eyes—a rich hazel color that are both brown like his dad's and green like his mom's and entirely breathtaking. He could spend his life looking at people in exactly the way he's looking at Kyle right now, and he knows he'd never feel like this again.

"Good riddance, right?" Kyle laughs a little, and Stan nods very briefly before leaning forward and closing his lips over Kyle's.

It's the single-most electrifying thing Stan has ever felt, and it makes him queasy and lightheaded and _fuck_.

He pulls away, though he'd like to stay adhered to Kyle's for as long as possible, and lets a shaky breath fan over their lips. Kyle's looking a little shaken, just about as jittery Stan feels.

"You just go around kissing people like it's nothing, don't you?" Kyle mutters, eyes fixed permanently on Stan's mouth. Stan licks at his lower lip, gut all thick and melty at the realization that that's Kyle, finally, he can taste on his tongue, and nods vaguely. Kyle just looks at him, trying to hide a smile as he shakes his head and gives an affectionate, "What a slut" before surging forward to kiss him again.

And it actually makes Stan's heart want to leap out of his chest. He wraps his arm around Kyle's shoulders and slips his tongue into his mouth. Kyle kisses him back, pinning Stan back against the tree, and for a few moments he thinks he may actually be in heaven.

"Wow," Stan laughs a little as Kyle pulls back, and brings his hand up to rest on Kyle's cheek. "Shit, you're cold, dude."

"Ah, fuck," Kyle chuckles and rests their foreheads together. "I should get inside."

"No," Stan knows he pouts and pulls Kyle in for another kiss. He has this, finally has it, and he will be goddamned if he gives it up that easily. They sit there making out in the church cemetery, and if they can get through this without being struck down by God lightning or whatever, Stan figures God's cool with it.

Or he's just busy with starving kids or something.

Stan only pulls back when his phone starts buzzing. It's probably Butters, because if he says he'll text you when he gets home, he'll do it. Stan grabs his phone and checks the message—he needs to know Butters is at least okay, y'know?

_"Home"_

That's all it says.

Butters is a chatty little fuck, even over text message. He overshares, it's in his nature. Stan doesn't like this at all. He frowns and looks up at Kyle, who's running his fingers over Stan's jaw, and wets his lips.

"Butters was acting weird, right?" he asks, and Kyle quirks his brow.

"Really?" he laughs.

"I'm serious, dude," Stan mutters. "I'm worried about him. He's been acting really weird for a while now."

Kyle purses his lips and twines his fingers in Stan's hair, silently indicating for him to continue.

"I mean," Stan sighs. "Like, he got home, but I don't know. I feel weird. Do you—will you go check on him with me?"

Kyle nods and looks down, hooking his fingers into Stan's belt loops as he heaves a sigh. "Yeah, dude," he says. Stan grins at him and, not sure of what to do, sort of just envelops him in a bear hug and pulls him into a brisk walk toward Butters' house.

The walk isn't long, but it feels like it's taking forever. Kyle's walking closer to him than he has in a long while, at least since they were kids. Stan's gut is twisted up all funky, and more than anything he wants to take Kyle's hand in his and squeeze, but they just kissed. It's not like they're married or anything, right?

"So," Kyle breaks the silence. "We kissed."

Stan's voice cracks in a laugh as he nods, "Yeah… Yeah, I guess we did."

Kyle nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "I wasn't fucking around or anything," he says. "I mean—I wanted to. Still want to. Wanted to for a long time."

Stan can't help the intake of breath, or the fact that his legs stop working for a brief moment. Kyle wanted—with him?

"Nice fucking timing, dick," he laughs and shakes his head. Kyle grins back and shrugs.

"I'm the master," he says, and laughs when Stan flips him off. Stan feels his face get hot when Kyle slings his arm around his shoulder and they keep walking. There's something about Kyle that's always made Stan feel good and safe, and it's quelling his nerves as far as Butters goes.

Kyle's got a way of reminding Stan that everything's going to be okay.

Except, when they get to Butters' house the door is ajar. That's a major no-no with the Stotches, and Butters long broke the habit of leaving the door open when they were younger.

"Shit."

Stan takes off at a sprint, leaving a confused Kyle shouting behind him. Stan can hear his heartbeat in his ears as he pushes his way into the house. It's always so neat and sterile… it really makes Stan uncomfortable.

"Butters?" he calls, and after a moment there's no answer.

Shit, shit, _shit._ He takes the stairs two at a time and goes into his room. The light's on, but he's not in there. Stan frowns and starts looking around, making sure everything's in order. He hears a thud come from the stairwell and snorts.

"Okay there, sparky?" he calls.

"Eat my ass, Stan," Kyle comes back, and Stan barks out a laugh.

"Rain-check, dude," he snerks back.

"Whatever, I gotta take a wicked piss," Kyle says, and Stan can hear the eye-roll from here. Kyle's got some of the heaviest footfalls Stan has ever heard, can hear him plod all the way to bathroom and open the door.

"Oh, holy fucking shit!" Kyle shouts, voice unlike how Stan has ever heard it. It's the sound of someone who's just seen something soul-shattering, and it makes Stan scramble to him so fast that he almost trips over his feet.

Kyle's pressed flush against the wall directly opposite the bathroom door, and has even pushed a few pictures off the wall in his haste to get as far back as possible.

Stan is ninety percent sure that he's not seeing what's in front of him. Like, he knows he's lucid and that he's not dreaming, but… but holy mother of fuck, this isn't happening.

Butters is crumpled on a heap on the floor in a—_oh fucking god—_in a pool of blood? That can't be right.

Except for the fact that Stan thinks it might be.

"That's blood," Stan's voice cracks.

"Oh, no fucking shit, Stan!" Kyle shouts back.

"Well, fucking do something!" Stan snaps as he goes into the bathroom to crouch beside Butters' body. He looks back up at Kyle only to find that he hasn't moved yet. "Kyle, are you fucking serious? Call 911, dude!"

"I—" Stan can hear the 'can't' forming in the back of his throat, but Kyle holds it back. "Don't touch him, Stan," he mutters as he scrabbles for his phone. He punches in the number and starts nervously talking to an operator while Stan puts a hand on Butters' cheek. He's still warm, thank God, and if Stan puts his fingers under Butters' nose, he can faintly feel air ghosting out of him.

"Hey, he's still breathing, dude," Stan says shakily, and he sort of just drops next to him. He doesn't care that he's sitting in a puddle of blood, just that Butters is apparently alive and that help is on the way. Butters is sickly pale, but Stan still pulls him up so his head is resting on the lap. He runs his fingers over Butters' cheek and pets his hands through Butters' hair. It's shorter now, cut close to his head—almost military length. Dressed up all nice, brand new haircut… apart from the blood and the lack of life in his cheeks, he looks like a grownup. Like his dad or something.

The sight alone is enough to make Stan's throat close up.

"Butters," he chokes softly. "Just… just hang on dude."

He looks up at Kyle, who's not speaking, who barely looks like he's able to process what he's seeing, and tries to give him the most sympathetic look possible. Kyle just shakes his head and, without a word, turns on his heel and heads downstairs.

Shit. Kyle can't go—he's the type of person who knows what to do in that kind of situation. He'd call Butters' parents, or run back to the church and tell them or something… he knows how to get shit done. All Stan's good at is holding bloody people and whispering nice things to them.

"Dude, you can't fucking cut out on me, you little shit," Stan mutters, shakily running his fingers over the blood on Butters' cheek. "Kyle kissed me. Or, I guess I kissed him. You cannot fucking leave this earth before I get to tell you about his dick, fucker."

Butters is unresponsive, so Stan does the only thing he can bring himself to do—he just sits there, pets Butters' hair, and waits.

Stan decides not to move until the paramedics get there. Butters doesn't stop bleeding, but apart from grabbing a few towels off of the nearby rack and putting pressure on his arms, Stan doesn't know what to do. Everything's kind of a blur, and it only gets worse when Kyle appears at the doorway, not with paramedics, but with Butters' parents.

His mom lets out this mind altering scream and starts batting at Stan, shooing him out of the way so she can take his place, while his dad crouches beside them and looks on, horrified, too stunned to even try to help.

Stan then remembers that this isn't the first time they must be feeling this—Butters has fake-died lots of times in the last seventeen years. This is different than hurling a pig off a building or setting him adrift down a river in a car, though. It's very obviously Butters who's bleeding out on the neat, pristine floor that Stan has seen him clean so many times; it's very much their bright, happy-go-lucky son lying near lifeless in a pool of his own blood with a razorblade glinting menacingly near his fingers.

When the paramedics get there, it turns into kind of a shit show. They ask who found him, and a few more questions Stan can't quite remember, but must have answered. He doesn't even realize Kyle hasn't been beside him until he reappears and pulls him downstairs and onto the couch. Stan doesn't sit, because he knows he's messy, but stands close by.

The front door is still open, and Stan can see people looking inside, craning their necks to see what's going on, but not actually interfering. Stan's grateful for that—he doesn't know that he could actually put words to what he's just seen.

It looks like he's doing better than Kyle, though. Stan doesn't think he's ever actually seen Kyle stunned into silence before. He swallows back a big lump in his throat and strokes Kyle's frizzy hair.

"He left notes," Kyle finally says, and shifts to reach into the pocket of his big bulky jacket. He pulls out a piece of paper. "This one's for you… I left the one he wrote for his parents in his room."

A little bile kicks up into Stan's throat when he grabs the paper from Kyle. He reads over the words, but none of them stick. He sees things like _"I love you"_ and _"sorry I wasn't a good friend"_ and something about porn, but Stan's brain is too full to even think about it. He stuffs the letter into his pocket; he'll read it later, when he knows Butters is okay.

There's more commotion when the paramedics bring Butters down the stairs on this giant stretcher and take him outside. The people looking on in front of the house break out into a dull roar of speculation when they see Butters all bloodied. Stan and Kyle follow quickly behind Butters' parents—at least, Stan does. Kyle can't seem to leave the front porch. So, while Mrs. Stotch climbs into the back of the ambulance and Mr. Stotch herds Stan toward the car, Kyle just stands there. Stan's not sure if the immobility is a matter of can't or won't, but Stan can't be bothered by it right now. He gets in the car and watches as Kyle remains motionless, even once the ambulance is gone, even in the mirror of Mr. Stotch's car when he and Stan are already halfway down the street.

He just sits in the car, soaked in blood, and tries not to cry.

**oooooo**

Coming back hits him like a freight train this time. Normally his spirit is usually all back and tucked away the moment his body regenerates, but something hitches it this time and he slams back down fully grown, panting and wondering what the fuck just happened.

The shitty alarm clock says it's Christmas Eve, and if that's the time, his family's already long arrived to midnight mass. The one at their church starts at nine, just to make it easier on the old folks in their town, and yet Kenny's family never manages to make it on time.

There's a sense of panic deep in Kenny's chest that's not going away, one far past catching his breath. Every particle in his body is thrumming; his heart is slamming against his chest so hard it almost hurts. Then he remembers how he died and when he died, and how fucking helpless Butters looked when he'd left his house, and how much more pitiful he must have looked when he realized that Kenny wasn't coming back.

The thought alone is enough to make Kenny feel like jumping in front of a moving train.

He rolls out of bed, ignoring the painful stretch of his muscles, and scrambles to find his boots and a pair of pants. He doesn't need a shirt—he's been swaddled in one of Kevin's old sweatshirts. There are holes in the pits, and it kind of smells like cat piss, but fuck it. He's got the rest of his natural born lives to be in clean clothes, but right now he feels like he's only going to get one chance to attempt to apologize to Butters. He pockets his phone and his keys (which always somehow mysteriously turn back up on his nightstand no matter how long ago he died), and heads out of the already empty house.

It's not easy, moving fast in these big clunky boots so soon after regenerating, and it's a little colder than he anticipated… and of course this is one of the only sweaters he owns that doesn't have a hood. He trudges along the sidewalk toward Butters' house, careful to avoid any and all things that could potentially get him killed.

He checks the time on his phone.

Apart from discerning that Butters is probably at mass, he sees that he's also got a few missed calls from him, but no messages.

Shit.

A shock of panic rides through him again, and immediately he starts running as fast as he can toward Butters' house. He's by no means graceful, and when a body has never run before, things can get messy. He slips a few times, but falls only once, and when he realizes he's made it to Butters' house alive, he counts it as a small triumph.

There's someone sitting out on his front porch, but it's definitely not Butters. It is, in fact, Kyle sitting there with his knees to his chest, like he's just seen a ghost. There's a certain crackle in the air, one that always follows the calm after a raging storm of commotion, and suddenly Kenny starts to feel very, very sick.

He approaches Kyle tentatively, and when Kyle outright fails to acknowledge him for a few moments, Kenny knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that something is wrong.

"Kyle?" he says softly, and Kyle jumps like he thought he was still alone or something. Once he registers that it's Kenny standing there, he shoots up to his feet and rather uncharacteristically pulls him into a hug. Kyle is cold, colder than he should be, so Kenny grabs him by the arm and pulls him into the Stotches' house.

"Dude, what the fuck is happening?" he asks, looking at Kyle imploringly. Kyle just shakes his head and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Butters," is all he gets out before he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "He, um… he tried to kill himself."

It's the first time Kyle's said the words, Kenny can tell, and for a moment they don't even faze him. Kenny almost asks how he did it, what he used, because when you're as seasoned in suicides and death as Kenny is, cause of death and methods of suicide are actually kind of an interesting topic.

And then he remembers that Butters can't come back like he can and a big lead ball of disbelief just swings out and hits Kenny square in the gut. He runs up the stairs (ignoring Kyle's protests), like he's going to find Butters tucked away and safe up there and this will all be some horrible, tasteless joke.

The bathroom door is wide open, and on the floor Kenny can see smears of dark red blood grinning eerily up at him. He immediately closes the door and tries to remember he's seen much worse.

It sure doesn't feel like it, though.

"'the fuck, I told you not to come up here," comes Kyle's voice from beside him. Kenny looks over at him, silently demanding an explanation. This is… fuck, it's making him a little sick.

Kyle just looks at the carpet as he takes a breath, "Stan and I just found him like that, all right? He was just in the bathroom, already passed out, we called 911 and his parents, and that was it. We saw him… we saw him before, and he was acting really distant and shit. I don't know, dude, talk to Stan about it or something."

The words tumble around in Kenny's head, but only barely manage to make sense. "Is he okay?" he asks, a little louder than intended, and Kyle winces.

"I don't know," he says. "He cut himself up pretty bad… They just took him to the hospital a little while ago. I just—I couldn't go."

A vision of Butters all cut up on the floor makes its way into Kenny's head and he feels his chest get tight. His brain is screaming right now, yelling at him to do a million different things at once, but the only one he really wants to do right now is curl up on the floor and cry. But, that won't help anything, so he just turns back to Kyle and looks at him. He doesn't even realize he's standing there with his mouth agape until he finally gets around to speaking.

"Dude, take me," he blurts out. He doesn't even consider that Kyle is probably in much worse shape than he's letting on, he just needs to see Butters. He can't help but think he's responsible for this whole thing in some way—over the last few months, Butters hasn't exactly proven himself to be the pinnacle of mental stability, and now Kenny feels like a total fuckwit for not saying something about it.

"Kenny," Kyle pleads, but Kenny's not letting up. If Kyle doesn't take him, he will steal a car and drive there himself, and he's counting on Kyle to realize this.

"Please, Kyle," he says. "You don't have to go in with me or anything, I just need to be there."

Kyle looks at him, eyes narrowed, but ultimately he concedes and starts back down the stairs. They have to walk back to Kyle's house, which isn't far, but everything seems to be taking forever right now. Kenny's died enough times to know that it only takes a second, and every single second that ticks by is another one that could mean he never gets to see Butters again.

Kyle doesn't even bother going into his house to tell his parents what's happening, just gets into the car with Kenny and starts off silently down the street. It's a bit of a ride to get to Hell's Pass, and they're silent for the whole of it. Kenny respects that Kyle doesn't want to talk about it; after a long time he started to become grateful that his friends couldn't remember any of his grisly deaths. Stan and Kyle may have seen Kenny in much more gut-wrenching deaths, but Butters sliced up by his own hand in his own blood is something they will never forget seeing.

When they get to the hospital, Kyle parks and goes into the ER with him. Actually, they stop halfway to the entrance and Kyle quickly loans Kenny one of the, like, six shirts he's wearing under his jacket. Apparently, he thinks it's inappropriate for Kenny to enter a hospital in the sweatshirt he's got on.

Nonetheless, he's grateful.

They find the Stotches and Stan fairly quickly. Mr. Stotch is pacing, too energized and worried to keep still, while Stan is sitting with his arm around Mrs. Stotch (_covered in blood, oh holy fuck he's covered in blood_), comforting her as she cries onto his shoulder. It's an odd sight to see, the Stotches so worried about their son, but they're so wrapped up in everything that they don't even notice Kenny and Kyle sit down across from Stan.

"Hey, guys," Stan says, looking all watery eyed once he realizes that Kyle is there.

"How is he?" Kenny asks, and Stan shakes his head.

"We don't know yet," he mutters. Terror settles over Kenny as he sits back in his chair.

There is actually a possibility that Butters won't be okay.

As much as he doesn't want to go there, his brain starts conjuring up these horrible half-baked thoughts of life without Butters. Kenny would never see him smile again, or be able to make him laugh so hard that he can't breathe. He'd never have that solid, warm body to hold again, or that soft hair to bury his nose in after a long day. No more making faces at each other during classes, or hanging out in his backyard and scooping up the malformed dead leaves that have fallen off the tree, or kissing when no one's watching.

If Butters dies right now, he'll never know how amazing he is… was?

Is.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by Mrs. Stotch sniffling and reaching forward to grab a tissue out of the box on the table in front of her. "I just don't understand," she sobs and dabs under her eyes. "He was always such a ha-happy boy."

The words stick like pitch in Kenny's ears, and suddenly it clicks. It's taken this long to get it, but it's very obvious that Butters wasn't happy—optimistic as fuck, sure, but not happy. And by no means 'okay'.

"Linda, come on," Mr. Stotch chimes in now, trying to sound collected even though it's obvious that he's not. "Now's not the time to get hysterical. The doctors are doing what they can."

Kenny almost reminds him that your child attempting suicide is the _perfect_ time to be hysterical, but he holds his tongue. Now isn't the time to be a smartass, and he has the feeling Mr. Stotch won't hesitate to ask him to leave if he says something stupid.

Mrs. Stotch looks up at Stan then and wipes under her eyes again, "Did he ever say anything that made you think… well, think that he'd do something like this?"

Stan shakes his head. And even though Kenny could give her a laundry list of things that, in retrospect, should have been big enough hints, he keeps his mouth shut. He just wants Butters to be okay-he'll detail to the Stotches just how hard they fucked their only kid over later... maybe once Kenny and Butters are together again and long gone from here.

"Oh, God," Mrs. Stotch just moans. "Why would he do this?"

"My, uh," Kyle pipes up, only to recede into himself when everyone's eyes settle on him. "People just give up on life sometimes, you know? They don't think life'll get better."

Linda howls at this, and now Mr. Stotch sits on the other side of her and pulls her close, just to muffle her against his chest. Kenny feels a pang of sadness in his stomach.

This is the only time he's seen proof that Butters' parents actually do care about him.

Kenny's not sure how much time passes after that, but a doctor comes in after, looking equal parts somber and relieved.

"He's stable," he says, and Kenny doesn't hear much of anything after that. He's more relieved than he's ever been, because all 'stable' means to him right now is that he'll be able to hold and kiss Butters again, and after this shit he will do so for as long and as often as he goddamned well pleases. With all these thoughts flitting through his head, it's only natural that he gets up when the doctor tells the Stotches they can go back and see Butters, quick to follow behind them.

Except, the doctor puts a hand on his chest and reprimands him, tired but firm, "Family only right now, I'm sorry."

Kenny frowns, "That's bullshit," he comes back, before he can even think about it. Everyone's gotten to see Butters today except Kenny. He wants to see with his own fucking eyes that Butters is okay. "I want to see him."

"Kenny," Mrs. Stotch says and dabs at her eyes with a tissue. "Please don't make this man's life any harder than it has to be."

"Fuck that, it doesn't have to be difficult," Kenny asserts, anger bubbling up in his stomach now. "Just let me back with them."

"I'm sorry, young man, I can't do that," the doctor sighs.

"I want to see him," Kenny comes back again, almost shouting, and Mrs. Stotch sighs.

"Sweetheart, this is not about you," she says very plainly, and for a second it almost sounds like she hasn't been crying. "You boys should go home, get some rest. He'll be here tomorrow."

"Exactly," the doctor nods. "I'd be happy to let you boys see him tomorrow. Just go on home and we'll let you in when you come back."

Kenny raises his eyebrows, about to lash out, but he knows better than to make a scene. Seventeen years of being white trash may make it hard to hold your tongue, but it's not impossible. He just sits back down in his chair and kicks his feet up onto the coffee table.

"I'll wait, thanks."

* * *

**Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing and, as always, being patient!**

**Chapter title from _Ripple_ by _The Grateful Dead_. **


	12. Can You Tell Me Where It Hurts?

**Chapter 12: Can You Show Me Where It Hurts?**

Stan and Kyle wait with Kenny through the night. They sit together and look through an outdated issue of Rolling Stone, so close together that their knees touch. Kenny dozes off a couple of times, and when he wakes up he can see them holding each other's hands, or talking low and close together.

Gone for three days and his best friends are all shacked up.

And holding hands and looking generally lovey-dovey.

Like… _Kyle's_ doing this. Mr. _I'm In A Relationship With My College Applications What Are Girls_ has his arm draped over Stan's shoulders and is playing with his hand, looking an odd mix of shell-shocked and content.

Kenny's been fucking around with Butters for months and he's still a total fucking ass.

The third time Kenny wakes up from a cat nap, he's being prodded awake by one of the nurses.

"Are you Kenny McCormick?" she asks, and Kenny nods. She looks relieved, and when Kenny looks over at Stan and Kyle pretzeled together he realizes she must not have wanted to bother them. "Leopold Stotch is awake. You can go on in and see him if you want."

"Oh," Kenny scrambles up a little ungracefully, apologizing when she jumps back to avoid getting hit. "How—how is he?"

The nurse (Janice, her nametag says) takes a breath and runs her hands over her bright floral scrubs. "He's doing fine, as far as we can tell. Won't talk to anyone, though."

Kenny wonders briefly how he'll be received. He knows Butters won't be angry or mad or anything like that, and even if he is he won't say anything. Kenny can't help but feel like he's a little responsible, like if he'd been here he wouldn't have given Butters the chance to hurt himself.

He lets Janice lead him back through this sterile labyrinth these people call a hallway and to Butters' room, one it appears he's sharing with an elderly woman who's completely enraptured by the soap opera she's watching.

Kenny stops in the doorway as soon as his eyes settle on Butters. His hair is cut close to his head, almost as short at the sides as it was when he was a kid; he's propped up on his pillow with a mostly uneaten breakfast in front of him and thick white bandages clapped over his forearms. Above anything else, though, the thing that gets to him most is the look on Butters' face—this listless, dead-behind-the-eyes look that is so uncharacteristic for this normally exuberant human being. It's so hard to look at that Kenny almost turns around and barrels back down the hallway.

But something propels him forward. Butters doesn't see him at first, also wrapped up in the melodrama on the TV, so Kenny just clears his throat and gives an all-impressive, "Hey."

Butters jumps slightly and looks over, bug-eyed and—god—it's the worst Kenny's ever seen him look, but Kenny can't see past the fact that he's _alive_ and _okay_ and looking at Kenny like he's seen a ghost, and that's the most beautiful thing Kenny could ever ask for.

It makes Kenny's throat close up in a most remarkable way.

"God, it is… really good to see you," he says, though he doesn't move to touch him or anything. He feels almost like Butters will run if he even so much as flinches too quickly. He pulls a chair right up to the edge of Butters' bed and sits, disheartened when Butters shifts away from him a little.

"I—I'm not gonna hurt you or anything," Kenny reassures him softly. "I'm just so fucking happy you're okay, dude. Seriously."

"What are you doing here?" Butters frowns, voice all thin and weak and _mildly _terrified, and Kenny feels not unlike he's been stabbed through the chest. He knows he didn't exactly shower Butters with affection or anything, but there's no way he could still think he just flat out just doesn't care about him, right?

"Butters, I—" his voice catches in his throat as the muscles in his neck constrict. Fuck.

Fuck, he's going to start crying, isn't he?

"I don't know, dude, like," he swallows back a lump. "Aside from the fucking obvious," he gestures toward Butters' arms.

"So I'm not hallucinatin' or nothin'?" Butters asks, sounding more pitiful than Kenny has ever heard, "I mean, they drugged me up pretty good for these." He holds up his arms, as though making a point.

"No, dude," Kenny shakes his head, more than a little relieved. "I'm real, I promise."

Butters gives him a nod, still looking a little frightened but at least like he believes Kenny nonetheless. He doesn't stop nodding, though, and just when Kenny's about to ask him what he's doing, Butters starts crying. Like, really crying. So much so that the old woman on the other side of the room clears her throat and turns up the TV just a bit. Kenny almost yells at her, but Butters is crying so hard that Kenny can't be fucked to bother with her right now. He just grabs Butters' hand in one of his, careful not to twist his arm or anything too much.

"I'm here," he says. "It's okay, I promise."

"I tried," is all Butters chokes out, and Kenny has to get very close to hear him. "God, I tried so hard, a-an' it turns out I can't e-even do this right."

"Oh, fuck," is what comes tumbling out of Kenny's mouth. Killing himself. He's fucking talking about being a failure at _killing himself_. "Butters, you're not a failure. Do you realize how fucking incredible it is that you're still here? From what I hear, you were in pretty bad shape."

Butters screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. "'m su-such a-an idi—idiot."

"You're not, though," Kenny mutters, so only Butters can hear. "You're everything but. You're kind, and sweet, and you just want everyone to be happy. I was scared shitless a few months ago, but you saw through all that." He strokes a hand over Butters' short, fuzzy hair and continues, "Remember when we'd play superheroes when we were kids, and you always played the villain?"

"Yeah, w-world's shittiest vi-villain," Butters stammers. "I heard all this from Eric."

"Dude, my point is that you've done this since we were little," Kenny says, still stroking softly over his hair. "You think you're bad or evil, but you're not. You're really good… the best, actually. You're so good that you can see the best parts of people, even when it's buried under a whole bunch of shit. That right there? That's a fucking superpower, okay? Have you seen the assholes we have to deal with in this fucking town?"

Butters whines at this and starts crying again. It's this that gets Kenny to unlace his boots and crawl up onto the tiny hospital bed with him. If the woman on the other side of the room wants to say anything, she fucking well can, but Kenny's not leaving this bed or this boy until someone forcibly drags him away. He pulls Butters against him carefully, so that his arms are cocooned between their chests, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

"I think I'm in love with you, Butters Stotch," he admits softly, mildly surprised even if it's all he's been thinking about all night. "And it's not because you're a fuckup or a failure. It's because you made me feel good again—like, you made me fearless again, dude. Fuckups can't do that kind of thing, and neither can cowards or failures or anything like that. You're so much stronger than you think."

Butters doesn't say anything, just cries into Kenny's neck and lets himself be held. Kenny is at a loss, unaware of how to proceed. He knows he can't just tell Butters to buck up and realize that he's amazing, but he seriously just does not know how to handle this.

Butters pipes up then, barely even a whisper, "You left me, though."

And it's just too perfect. Kenny puts a finger under Butters' chin and tips his face up so their eyes meet, "_Hear this now: I will always come for you_."

It takes Butters a moment, but then he screws up his face and asks, "Did you just drop _The Princess Bride _on me?"

"Shh," Kenny presses a finger to Butters' lips. "_Death cannot stop true love_."

And while it may not get Butters to smile, it does get him to shift and wrap his arms gingerly around Kenny's neck. The bandages are hot against Kenny's skin, hotter than the rest of Butters, his body already working overtime to heal.

Kenny strokes the backs of his fingers over Butters' cheek and sighs. "I'm so fucking lucky I have you, Butters," he says. "I should've told you that forever ago. I'm sorry."

Butters doesn't have time to reply before nurse Janice comes in again, this time with Stan and Kyle trailing close behind her.

"Oh, no," she shakes her head, moving to shoo Kenny off the bed. "No, no, absolutely not. That is unacceptable. You get off that bed immediately, young man. This is a hospital, not a cathouse!"

Kenny rolls off the bed and gathers his boots without any argument—he doesn't want to add to any stress Butters might be feeling, and judging by the look on Janice's face, she's about two seconds away from whipping her own shoe off and beating Kenny with it until he leaves the building. Stan and Kyle, meanwhile, are just watching this play out with looks of utter amusement on their faces.

"All right, you boys have five minutes," Janice says. "Then we have to move Leopold to another part of the hospital."

Janice exits once more and suddenly it's intensely awkward. The old woman is still pretending not to listen, and Butters looks a little overwhelmed to have so many bodies in the room at once. His eyes are fixed on Stan, still in the same clothes from the night before, all crusted over brownish red with—

"I-is that blood?" Butters rasps. Stan looks down and, like he's entirely forgotten last night, seems to catch himself off guard.

"Well, yeah…" he shrugs, trying to hide behind Kyle. "Maybe just a little bit."

Butters chokes up at this and puts his hands over his face in an attempt to hide his tears from Stan and Kyle. Kenny wants nothing more than to climb back into that bed and hold him close, but he gets the feeling nurse Janice will not hesitate to bar him from the hospital forever if she sees him do it again. So, Kenny sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand over the fuzz on Butters' head again.

"I'm sorry," Butters chokes. "I'm such an idiot."

"Dude, no," Stan shakes his head. "You were acting really fucking weird last night. I shouldn't have let you leave alone—_we_ shouldn't have let you leave alone." He looks over at Kyle, who just nods like that's all he's there to do. Kenny doesn't think he could talk right now even if he tried.

"If anything," Stan continues. "If anything we're sorry, and we're idiots. Y'know, for not seeing something was wrong."

Butters is crying full-on now, all choked up and leaning slightly into Kenny's touch. It's soon after this that Janice comes back into the room and exasperatedly tells them that it's time for them to go.

"Aw, don't let us leave him like this," Kenny groans as Janice shoos him away from the bed. Getting that he's going to be kicked out one way or another, he bends down to give Butters a kiss on the forehead. "I'll see you soon," he says. This gets Janice to start in on how inappropriate this is for hospital behavior, though Kenny's not sure how true that is. Butters is still hiccupping, but has stopped crying, so Kenny takes advantage of the opportunity.

"I love you, Butters Stotch," Kenny grins, even as Janice starts herding him, Stan, and Kyle towards the door. "Don't think I'm not gonna tell you every chance I get, either!" He manages to shout this last bit just as Janice shuts the door in their faces.

And just like that, Kenny feels a familiar lead ball settle in his gut. He doesn't like the thought of leaving Butters by himself, even if he's not actually alone. Stan and Kyle both look at him for a moment before each throwing an arm around his shoulders. They walk out to Kyle's car like that, Kenny holding his boots to his chest and not even caring that the ground is beyond cold.

They go back to Stan's, mostly so Stan can change, order some pizza, and watch _Die Hard_. Sharon appears to know what happened, why her boys aren't talking, why they all have a shocked sort of look on their faces… she even appears to understand why Kyle and Stan are sitting so close, and doesn't ask them about a damn thing

It appears the whole town knows about Butters too. Not that rumors and gossip are renowned for keeping contained in a small town like South Park, but every time he hears anyone talk about it, Kenny feels a little flare of rage lick at his stomach. What business do they have to talk about Butters? They're just as guilty as anyone, not recognizing the signs when they should have, not intervening and getting him the help that he needed.

Butters isn't crazy, and Kenny may punch the next person who says so.

It's been a long week, one filled with after Christmas clearance sales at Walmart (where Kenny and Karen get a lot of their nicer clothes for the coming year), helping Kevin repair the busted radiator in their truck, and not seeing Butters. He's been put in a special unit in the hospital where they monitor people they think might be a danger to themselves or others. Upon hearing this the first time, Kenny wanted to fly to Butters' defense, reassure everyone that he was fine.

Except even Kenny wasn't and isn't sure that Butters wouldn't try to hurt himself again. No matter how many times Kenny tried to go see him, he always got the same 'no visitors allowed' flack. He's spoken to Butters on the phone a few times, mostly since Butters has called him when the nurses allow.

"Thanks, Kenny," Butters says at the end of each conversation.

"For what?" Kenny asks, scanning through the chapters (acts, scenes, _whatever_) of _Hamlet_ he's supposed to have finished by the time they start up school again.

"For treatin' me like I'm a person still," Butters' voice sounds tinny and hollow in Kenny's ears. "Everyone here treats me like I'm a moron or somethin'. And also no one reads _Hamlet_ to me… 'specially that one part about him deciding whether or not to kill himself."

"Oh, fuck," Kenny smacks his forehead. "That's totally what 'to be or not to be' means, isn't it?"

"Yeah, they tend to stay away from that one here," Butters comes back, the sarcasm there but not quite in the same way. It's almost like talking to a computer—the words are right, but the tone is all off. It makes Kenny's chest ache, but every time he tries to edge his way into a visit, Butters insists with each phone call that this part of the hospital is very strict with the 'family only' visitor policy.

Kenny is determined today, though. It's New Year's Eve, a whole week after all of this started, and Kenny doesn't give a flying fuck about what any of those cocks at the hospital say. Kenny is going to see Butters today. Armed with nothing but an iron will and an impassioned speech about love (if need be) prepared for anyone who will listen.

Only he's told before he even states his purpose at the front desk that Leopold Stotch was checked out of the hospital this morning, thank you for playing, don't let the door hit you on the way out.

Well then.

Kenny thanks the woman at the desk and offers her a 'Happy New Year' before starting back out of the hospital. It's probably just as well—Kevin will piss himself if the truck is gone for too long. Not that the fucker will even use it, but he doesn't like it when Kenny uses it anymore…partly because they're both still unsure of how well they did on the radiator, but mostly because Kevin is a giant throbbing dick and likes pissing Kenny off.

He drives to Butters' house, happy to see that the Stotches' cars are in the driveway. Seeing Butters at home will be better than the hospital anyway. At least here they'll have a little privacy, right?

Kenny parks on the street and practically runs up to the door. He knocks a few times and tries to talk down the butterflies in his stomach. He can't help it—the thought of seeing Butters makes him fucking giddy.

Only the door opens and it's Mr. Stotch. Butters has shared stories about his dad before, and even if they're not enough to get Kenny shaking in his boots, they still render Mr. Stotch quite undesirable to be around.

"Hi, Mr. Stotch," Kenny says politely, even though all he wants to do is shove him aside and run to Butters as fast as he can. "I stopped by to see how Butters is doing."

Mr. Stotch's face immediately contorts into a frown as he shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Kenny," he says. "Butters just got home from the hospital this morning… he's not really up to seeing anyone right now."

Kenny frowns back, "Please? I've been trying to see him all week. I won't be long, I just wanted to stop by—"

"Butters isn't allowed to have friends over right now," Mr. Stotch says firmly. "Right now his mother and I are only concerned with him getting better. Friends will only distract him from that. Now, I'm sorry you went to all this trouble, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Kenny's about to retort when he sees Butters come down the stairs behind Mr. Stotch. Kenny experiences a moment of unadulterated joy when Butters sees him too and stops mid-step. Kenny gives him an excited wave, which only gets Mr. Stotch to shut the door right in his face.

Okay, that _really _chaps Kenny's ass.

"Hey, what the fuck!" he shouts and kicks at the door, feeling all hot and itchy deep in his bones. "He's right there, just let me talk to him!"

"He's not feeling well, he can't come out and play," comes Mr. Stotch's response through the door. "Butters, go back upstairs."

"Why don't you let him tell me that himself?" Kenny shouts back, this time shoving his shoulder into the door. Mr. Stotch opens the curtains on the window to the left and scowls at Kenny.

"If you don't leave my property immediately, I will have the police come and arrest you, young man."

There's a knock on the window on the other side of the door, where Butters has pulled open the curtains and is now making a hasty cutting motion across his throat with his hands.

It's not unlike getting kicked in the stomach, seeing Butters look at him like that. Like he's annoyed or impatient or something. Kenny's been dying to get an emotional response out of him for the last week, and the first one he gets is 'irritated'. Smooth move, McCormick.

Kenny takes it, though. He gives Butters a cool nod and a detached sort of wave before turning right back around and heading for his truck. He just wants to see Butters, for fuck's sake, and doesn't know why everyone's denying him this. He drives back to his house in silence before joining Karen on the couch while she eats poptarts and watches Say Yes to the Dress.

"How'd your Butters quest go?" she asks.

"Shitty," Kenny replies. Karen nods and leaves it at that, offering instead of conversation a large portion of poptart. Kenny gratefully accepts this and settles in for a long haul of TV watching.

They get through about half an episode before they're interrupted. Kevin comes downstairs in a ratty old bathrobe he dug out of the church's donation bin and a pair of mismatched slippers and elegantly situates himself right between Kenny and Karen.

"What the fuck is this faggotry?" he asks, just as the flamboyant man in the suit comes in to tell a bride how pretty she looks.

"Randy's building up some self-esteems like a motherfucker, shut up and let me watch," Karen scowls. Kevin watches for about thirty seconds before he snorts and grabs the remote.

"They gonna fix her snaggletooth before she gets married?" he asks.

"You tell me, dead-tooth." Kenny comes back, without even thinking about it. Kevin's got a wonky dead tooth right in the front of his mouth that they've never had the money to fix. He claims it gets him pussy when he says it happened in a bar fight. Kenny thinks that's a crock of shit.

Kevin's only retaliation is to punch Kenny too close to the dick for comfort. He ends up changing the channel to wrestling, which makes Karen roll her eyes and leave the room altogether.

"You know this is, like, the gayest thing we could watch, right?" Kenny asks as he pulls his knees up to his chest. "Sweaty guys playing grab-ass and pinning each other to a mat…" It's actually getting Kenny a little turned on, thinking about it like that. Not that the guys on screen are doing it for him or anything, but the thought of wrestling Butters and pinning him to a mat and having his way with him—or, Kenny's mouth immediately goes dry, Butters pinning him and having his way with him—is making Kenny breathe just a little harder.

"'the fuck?" Kevin asks. "You got asthma or something?"

That snaps Kenny out of it. He grabs the remote from Kevin's hand and switches it to FX. There's a marathon of Two and a Half Men on, which Kevin goes apeshit for and makes Kenny want to shoot the TV, but it's better than popping a stiffy during wrestling.

They make it through a few excruciating hours before there's a knock on the door. Kevin makes Kenny answer it, even though Kenny's just so glad to get up from watching this stupid show that he would've done it anyway.

He feels his heart stop when he sees Butters standing on the other side of the door, all wrapped up in a thick, puffy jacket and still looking like he's about to freeze to death.

"What are you doing here?" Kenny asks before anything else decides to crop up in his brain, and Butters just looks right at him, through him almost.

"I came to see you," he says. "Is that all right?"

"Yeah, dude," Kenny nods and steps aside so that Butters can come in. He shuts the door just as Butters sees Kevin sitting on the couch and stills. Kevin sees him too, and gives Kenny this look that probably would have made him shit his pants a few months ago. Kenny's got bigger things to worry about right now.

"So, Butters and I are gonna hang out for a while," Kenny says and makes it a point not to grab Butters' hand as they head toward the stairs.

"Keep your cornhole covered," Kevin salutes as they walk by.

"Real witty there, Kev," Kenny rolls his eyes and grabs Butters by the sleeve as soon as they're out of sight. He doesn't know if his parents are home… he doesn't think they are. His mom's washing dishes at Bennigan's tonight, and his dad's probably at the bar in town. Or passed out in their room. Either way, Kenny doesn't have to worry about him right now.

He closes his door behind Butters and locks it, turning back to him and giving him a soft, reassuring smile. Butters returns it and sheds his coat; he's wearing an unnervingly form-fitted gray hooded pullover underneath, and if Kenny looks closely, he can see where his bandages puff up underneath the fabric.

"How'd you get out of your house, dude?" Kenny asks as Butters pulls off his boots.

"I waited 'til I ate dinner an' told my folks I was gonna turn in for the night," Butters replies a little formulaically and sits on the edge of Kenny's bed.

"What if they realize you're gone?" Kenny poses, still not having moved from his place by the door. Butters just shrugs.

"Then I suppose I'll wait 'til I hear my own missing person's report an' go back home," he says, and even if it's not meant to be a joke or sarcastic, Kenny laughs anyway. He sees Butters' lips quirk up slightly and figures it's probably the best he's going to get in the smile department. Seeing Butters sitting there on his bed, looking as clean-cut as he does, gets Kenny to start kicking at the dirty clothes on his floor.

"Uh, sorry it's not clean," he mutters. "If I'd known you were coming, I would've told you to brace yourself."

Butters shrugs again, "I like it."

Kenny grins and puts his hands on his hips. He's wanted to have Butters to himself for a whole week now, and now that he's got him, he has no idea what to do with it.

"Fuck, dude," Kenny laughs a little at his own stupidity and runs his hands through his hair. "Can I kiss you?"

Butters just looks at him with big, stunned eyes before nodding his head. "Yeah," he says. "What the heck're you asking for?"

"I don't know," Kenny shrugs and sits on the bed beside him. "Just figured I'd make sure." He leans forward and captures Butters' lips in his. It's incredible, how everything else feels like it falls into place when he kisses this boy. He loves how Butters is still so unabashed when he kisses, that he can smell Butters, like, all the way in the back of his brain and feel him all warm and firm against him.

He pulls back and grins stupidly at Butters, who is, by some strange miracle, grinning back. If that's all it takes to get him to smile, Kenny will happily keep kissing him forever. He runs his hands and fingers all over Butters' face and through his hair. It's retarded how happy he is that he has Butters back and kissing him and smiling, but he can't help it.

"C'mere," he says and flops back on the bed, stretching out his arms so Butters will get the hint and lie down beside him. Butters does, though he doesn't go into Kenny's arms so much as he just stretches out next to him. Their shoulders are touching, and Kenny moves so their fingers are interlocked too. Kenny looks over at Butters, a little concerned that Butters is just staring listlessly at the ceiling, and turns his head to peck him on the cheek.

"How're you doing?" he asks. Butters shrugs.

"Well, I'm not dead," he says, but doesn't really hint that that's a good or bad thing. Instead he just sifts, though he's careful not to detach his and Kenny's hands, and continues, "I know I'm supposed to be happy about it, but I don't know if I actually am or not."

The words actually make Kenny a little nauseous, and he gets to wondering whether or not it's moral or ethical to duct tape Butters to his bed.

Like he realizes this, Butters covers his eyes with his free hand and sighs, "Sorry, that's not really fair to say, is it?"

"Dude," Kenny frowns and turns his head so he can properly give Butters a look. "Say whatever the fuck you need to say to me. I know I'm not a doctor or a shrink or anything, so I can't tell you what to do or anything, but I don't need a PhD or a degree to listen to you. Are you—are they making you see a doctor?"

"I talked to someone a bunch while I was in the hospital," Butters nods.

"What'd they say?"

"Uh, it wasn't really them sayin' anything," Butters rubs at one of his eyes. "I was s'posed to talk an' based on what I said, they were s'posed to respond. I didn't talk much though, so it wasn't really all that helpful."

"Well, talk to me if you want," Kenny says. "I want to help you, and if that's what you need, then that's what you need."

Butters sighs and detaches their hands so he can turn on his side. Kenny mirrors him, moving so that they're huddled close and kisses Butters on the corner of his mouth.

"I left a n-note for my parents," Butters begins, letting his eyes slip shut. "Y'know, before I—yeah. Um, well, in it I t-told 'em… I wrote that I'm gay an' they found it."

"Oh, shit," Kenny frowns. "I'm guessing they didn't take it too well."

Butters shakes his head. "Obviously I didn't think I'd have to face 'em again," he says. "The worst is I can tell—" he hiccups "—I know they're happy I'm alive, but not as much as they wish I wasn't gay. Now I don't know if they're happy 'cause I'm _alive_ or happy 'cause _I'm_ alive. Does that make sense?"

He opens his eyes and looks at Kenny sort of pleadingly, and Kenny nods.

"Yeah," he whispers. "Yeah, that makes sense." He leans forward and kisses Butters again, holding him close in a staunch refusal to ever let him out of his sight or his arms ever again.

"Anyway," Butters sniffles when he pulls away. "Now they want me to see a therapist twice a week starting Tuesday."

"Well, that might not be so bad," Kenny suggests, "I mean, having someone who deals with people who're going through what you're going through might actually be a really good thing."

"I know," Butters sighs. "I just don't wanna sit there an' explain to someone _why_ I did what I did or why I think I feel like I do. There's just all sorts of stuff that just makes me feel _bad_, a-an' I don't wanna think about it. That's why I don't."

Kenny doesn't respond to that right away, just runs the backs of his fingers along Butters' cheek and kisses his nose. He's starting to get the feeling that he's in way over his head here, but then again, so is Butters, right? That's why he—well.

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Kenny sighs, and Butters squishes his eyes shut, like he's about to start crying. "Baby, it's okay," Kenny pulls Butters in close to his chest.

"I didn't—" Butters hiccups again. "I d-didn't think it _was_ bad. I thought I was doin' okay. It's not like I sat there an' p-planned it out."

"Isn't that how most people do it, though?" Kenny asks. "I mean, don't people plan on killing themselves at least a little in advance?"

"I don't know," Butters whines. "I don't even remember thinkin' it, just going home an' doin' it. Know what the worst part is?"

Butters looks back up at him and Kenny shakes his head.

"My g-grandma called earlier today to see how I was doin'," he says. "She said if I really wanted to do it, I woulda done it."

"Well," Kenny begins, running his fingers through Butters' soft hair—it's like puppy fur or something, Kenny can't stop touching it. "Your grandma's kind of a douche, right?"

"Said I shoulda done it, since it's what all faggots do, an' I'm only prolonging the inevitable," Butters adds, no emotion on his face.

"Wow," Kenny's eyebrows shoot up. "Forget douche, that's just fucking evil, dude."

"I know," Butters groans.

"Well, at least she'll be dead one of these days," Kenny offers, and Butters just looks up at him with this look on his face that Kenny can't quite identify. Obviously, this means Kenny should continue, right? "I mean, she's old. She's at the end of her life. You're just starting yours. And the best way to get revenge on people like that is to be happier than they've ever been."

Butters still has that look on his face when he flies forward and mashes his mouth against Kenny's. Kenny gets the feeling that they are absolutely done talking for the night and lets Butters climb on top of him. They kiss frantically, mouths seeking out parts of each other that they've so missed, relearning what they may have forgotten in the time it's been since they've had a proper make out. Butters rolls their hips together amid the fumbling of their hands, and soon his sweatshirt is off and tossed across the room, while Kenny rubs at the front of his jeans.

He's soft still—not that Kenny's complaining or anything, but he's already got a partial hard-on that's begging to be touched. Butters seems to realize this at the exact same second Kenny does and screws up his face, rolling off Kenny and sitting dejectedly with his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Ken," he mutters as Kenny sits up.

"Dude, don't be," Kenny shakes his head. "It's been a shitty week, it's understandable."

Butters whines and folds up into himself and Kenny can't help it—he laughs a little. He scoots over to him and rubs a hand over his back, tracing the ridges of Butters' spine with his fingertips and pressing kisses to his shoulder.

"You look like a hedgehog," he murmurs close to Butters' ear. Butters doesn't look up, just halfheartedly reaches up to bop him on the head, and Kenny grabs his wrist lightly in his hand. He ducks his head so he can kiss Butters as best he can, grinning when he sees Butters' lips twitch into a momentary smile.

"So," Kenny starts in. "These are some big-ass bandages, dude."

Butters looks at him, and even if his face doesn't tell Kenny he's an affable idiot, his eyes sure do. He bites his lip and looks down at the large white swathes.

"You wanna see 'em?" he asks then, looking up at Kenny with complete sincerity behind his eyes. It actually scares Kenny just a little bit.

"Um," he scratches the back of his neck. "Are you—you're sure?"

Butters nods, and before Kenny knows it he's peeling back the landing strip of medical tape and gauze pads.

"Holy fucking shit," Kenny breathes the moment the angry red marks meet his eyes. Butters really hadn't intended on coming out of this, had he? The marks look deep, and they're far from being just one long line down his arm, like Kenny thought they would be. They fork off in all sorts of directions, like Butters was making sure to optimize the use of every vein that he could.

"Do they hurt?" is the next wonderfully formed thought that falls out of Kenny's mouth.

"Yeah," Butters nods. "They gave me some stuff to take for it, but I forgot to before I left."

"I cannot fucking believe you're alive," Kenny shakes his head. Especially when he's died unintentionally from a lot less. That's the way it goes, though, right? Butters just hums and puts the bandages back in place.

"Neither can I," he says, and Kenny knows it's the truth.

Kenny wets his lips and pulls Butters back onto the bed with him, situating them so they're both spooned nicely against each other.

"I love you so much, Butters," he hums close to Butters' ear. Kenny can feel Butters' heart speed up where his hand rests over his chest, and it's the most soothing thing he's ever felt in his entire life.

"I love you too, Kenny," Butters replies softly then, and Kenny suddenly feels a little like he could cry. He holds Butters as firmly as he can and kisses the back of his neck, totally knocked off his feet by how good Butters feels, smells, sounds against him. He holds him close until they both doze off, each breathing deeply and falling into rhythm with the other.

Even when Butters wakes him a few hours later and says he has to go home, Kenny walks him to the door with this warm, cozy feeling in his chest that could only come from knowing the person you love is alive and breathing, and loves you back.

* * *

**Hi all! Quick update this time. Thank you all for sticking with me and my erratic update schedule. You're all awesome, seriously. **

**Chapter title taken from Pink Floyd's _Comfortably Numb_.**


	13. Come on You Little Fighter

**Chapter 13: Come On You Little Fighter (Get Back Up Again)**

Everything changes the moment he comes home from the hospital, and suddenly he feels like he's nine-years-old again. His parents talk down to him, but in the way they normally do. They go from frustration to outright patronizing in a matter of seconds. Everything that could be used as a means to take his own life is kept under safe lock and key. They locked up the cleaning supplies, all the razors, even the kitchen utensils. They make Butters eat off of plastic plates with brightly colored plastic forks that were clearly made for children.

"Honey, if you didn't give us such a scare, we wouldn't have to go through this," his mom reminds him. "Now, eat your spinach. You need to build up your strength again."

They've been force-feeding him all these iron-rich foods for days—steak, potatoes, spinach… anymore red meat and Butters is convinced he's going to have a heart attack.

The one thing that's different is that he's been absolved from his chores. Even when he goes to wash his plate after he eats, his mom will usually step in and do it for him, or sometimes his dad will. It appears that they don't want to do anything that could send him spiraling again, which is surprising. He's allowed to do a lot more things, like watch TV when he wants or get candy bars at the store whenever he wants and his parents don't say anything about it.

He's hardly ever alone, though, unless he's sleeping. His parents don't like him spending time by himself in his room, even though they've removed everything he could conceivably hurt himself with. He's allowed to have visitors, except for Kenny. He doesn't know how exactly they pieced together that there's something going on between them, but not only have they banned Kenny from the house, they've also refused to talk to Butters about it.

Stan comes to visit him, though. His parents can't think of a good reason not to let him stay—he plays football, and his parents somehow missed that guys who play football can also be raging homosexuals. Butters absolutely relishes in this, since Stan more often than not comes over to talk about how much he and Kyle have been screwing around.

As much as he appreciates the company, Butters can only take so much of Stan's loving, wistful descriptions of Kyle's cock.

"How're you doing, though, dude?" Stan asks. Butters has absolutely has no answer for that, so he just turns into Stan and lets him hold him for a while on the bed. He's seen a therapist twice already this week, and both times he's been pretty vague and not entirely responsive to it. He'd much rather talk to Kenny than some strange guy in a sweater vest who has one too many books about 'family values' on his shelf.

He does know, however, that he has tucked up against him the only other person he knows that's gone through depression, and still struggles with it.

"Has every single part of you ever just… hurt?" Butters finally murmurs against Stan's chest. Stan shifts.

"What, like your arms or something?" he asks. "I thought they gave you painkillers for that."

"Not just my arms," Butters sniffs, "It's everything. My chest, my stomach, my eyes… even my brain just feels sore. But not the kinda sore I can do anything about. I feel like I jumped off a building and lived."

There's a moment that passes before Stan kisses him on the top of the head and hugs him close. "Yeah, I do, dude," he replies. "And I know you're gonna want to curb stomp me for saying this, but things will get better. Trust me, if anyone told me that when I was at my lowest, I'd have… I don't know, _pissed_ on them or something—"

"Well, that's different," Butters figures, more to himself than to Stan.

"—but you've gotta believe it, dude," he finishes and runs his fingers through the fuzz on Butters' temple. "Somewhere in there is a kid who once told me he was happy to be sad, because that made him realize how happy he must have been before if something could make him that sad now."

Butters doesn't think Stan meant to make him cry, but that's exactly what happens. He curls further into Stan and holds on tight as these body-wracking sobs overtake him, trying to muffle them as best he can so his parents don't walk in on him cuddled up to another boy. If Stan's not allowed over here either, he doesn't know what he'll do with himself.

"Oh, fuck," Stan mutters and starts petting his hand over Butters' hair in earnest. "Fuck, I didn't mean it like that… that was a really fucking dumb thing for me to say, don't listen to me."

But Butters can't be angry, because that's what he can't figure out: when has he ever been happy proportionate to the amount of sadness and utter despair that made him want to _kill _himself. More than anything, though, he wants to know what happened to the sweet kid who said that to begin with, and why, of all the possibilities, he turned into this.

Stan stays until he calms down, watches the first thirty minutes of Stepford Wives with him on Netflix before Butters is almost asleep.

"I'll see you tomorrow at school, dude," Stan says softly, pecks him on the lips, and heads out.

School. At least Butters had that to look forward to. When his parents had asked the therapist about it, he'd given his only helpful piece of advice and suggested that not returning to school and normalcy would only hinder the healing process.

Mostly Butters just wants to get out of the house without a parental escort.

He gets through a rather fitful night of sleep, an even worse morning of his parents not saying anything, encouraging or otherwise, so by the time he gets to school he's just so happy to be away from his house and his parents that he almost forgets the reason for all the coddling in the first place.

_"Did you hear? He tried to kill himself." _

_"I heard he took a bunch of pills and passed out in his bathroom."_

_"No, stupid, look at his arms. They're all covered up."_

_"Are you sure they didn't find him with a gun? I swore they found him with a gun." _

He doesn't even get to his locker before he realizes that coming back to school was possibly the worst idea he's ever had. Everyone's staring at him, talking about him like he's not even there, and

Butters is back to feeling disgusting and alone and just plain shitty.

Without another thought, he turns right around and all but sprints toward the front of the school. He can't stay here, not with everyone looking at him like he's a ticking bomb just waiting to explode. He'll ask someone to pick up his homework and he'll just go hang out… somewhere. He doesn't care where, he just needs to be somewhere, anywhere that's not school.

He trudges through the parking lot, eyes fixed firmly on the pavement, and almost walks right into a moving car. In fact, the only reason he doesn't is because someone grabs the back of his coat and pulls him back against them.

"Butters, what the hell? I've been calling your name for, like, five minutes."

It's Kenny. Of course it's Kenny. Butters doesn't even have to turn around to know. That voice just crashes over him and swathes him in every safe feeling he can ever remember having. He turns around, not crying, but not far off, and looks at Kenny. He hasn't seen him in about a week, even if they've talked on the phone a few times, and Butters can't help but think he looks a little taller.

"I don't wanna go back in there, Kenny," Butters says softly and, without thinking, steps forward to nestle himself against Kenny's chest.

"Fuck, I know, baby," Kenny replies softly. Butters may actually start crying at that—they're not exactly at boyfriend status, mostly because they've had other concerns that have taken precedence over relationship status, but this makes Butters feel like they might be _something_. And if not, it's still nice. "School's shit, but…" Kenny falters and runs his gloved hands over Butters' hair. "Sometimes you've just gotta push through it, right?"

Butters moans and hides his face in Kenny's neck, holding tight to the front of Kenny's parka. They stand there for a few moments before Kenny wriggles and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket.

"Kevin's got the flu, so I get the truck today," he says warmly into Butters' ear. "Wanna hang out for a bit?"

Butters nods, and Kenny slips their fingers together as he pulls him along to the back of the parking lot. They crawl into the bed of the truck, even though it's freezing cold, and Kenny pulls Butters down so that they're in a tight, warm embrace.

Kenny kisses him, and for a brief flicker of a moment, Butters feels okay. He wishes they were in his bedroom, or Kenny's, stretched out on a bed and lazily making out like normal kids get to do. Instead, they're in the back of a truck, and Kenny isn't allowed in his house because he's a 'corruptive influence'.

"You don't think people will see us?" Butters asks.

"Eh, not unless anyone looks for us, I don't think," Kenny shrugs. Butters hums and turns into him, glad to be held by Kenny again. Kenny smells like his menthol cigarettes and cheap soap and it's making Butters' head spin. He kisses Kenny's jaw and his neck, feeling a little clingy but not finding it in himself to care. And Kenny indulges him, which is nice. Butters' desire for sex has been close to nil for about two weeks, but kissing is usually always nice.

They lie in the bed of the truck even past when they hear the warning bell ring.

"You want me to take you home?" Kenny asks, and Butters immediately shakes his head.

"Heck no," he shakes his head. "We'll be lucky if I ever go back at all."

"Well, I'd offer up my bed, but my room gets too drafty at night, so," Kenny says, not pushing Butters into saying anything else (which he's eternally grateful for). They just stay there, absolutely still and looking up at the wintery sky above them, until Kenny speaks up again, "You're one warm motherfucker. You know that?"

"Am I," Butters states more than asks.

"Son, you're cuddly as shit," Kenny nods, and okay, that gets Butters to smile a bit. That gets Kenny to loosen up, to settle further into holding Butters and kiss the top of his head. "So, what do you want to do?" he asks. "You just tell me, and we'll do it, okay? Even if that means getting the fuck out of this shit town."

Butters smiles and turns further into Kenny's chest, "How about Disneyland?"

Kenny shifts so he can look at Butters, and very seriously, says, "No shit dude, I would drive you to Disneyland right now. No fucking question. I mean, we'd have to siphon gas out of unsuspecting cars, and the tickets are probably expensive as shit, but—"

"Okay, okay," Butters chuckles, and it feels foreign and strange that he can make a sound like that, or feel anything that isn't just… crap. "I believe you."

"Good," Kenny insists, "Because I mean it."

And it's overwhelming, because Butters knows that Kenny means it and he just plain does not understand why, so he sits up and tells himself not to start crying.

"Butters," Kenny says softly and sits up with him, running his hand over his back. "Talk to me, dude."

Butters pulls his legs up to his chest and shifts, sniffling and resting his chin on his knees as he fixes his eyes on his shoes. He hasn't looked his parents in the eye really since he got back, won't look at his therapist hardly at all, had Stan cuddle him so he didn't have time to notice that Butters didn't want to look at him, and now Kenny… if people look at him, they'll know how upset he still is, how broken everything feels, what a fucking mess he's made of himself.

"I just want to not be upset anymore," Butters says softly. "But a-all I am is sad, a-an' I don't want everyone in there to sit there an' talk about me like I'm not even there."

"Hah," Kenny gives a laugh. "Anyone talks shit about you at all and their asses are grass…es."

Butters snorts, but doesn't respond past that.

"Okay, see, fucker?" Kenny says and wraps his arm around Butters, pulling him close enough so he can peck a kiss on his cheek. "You're laughing, which means you're not done yet, all right? It's hard as fuck, coming back after all the shit you've gone through, but you know what? You're the biggest, baddest, toughest motherfucker I know. And I know shit's fucked, but you've gotta fucking get through it, dude. That's the only way it gets better."

Butters hugs his legs closer to his body and shakes his head. "All those people in there," he starts, "Everyone starin' at me… Kenny, what if someone asks me what happened?"

"You know they won't," Kenny says very frankly. "Those cocks all think they know the story already anyway."

"I'm gonna throw up if I go back in there," Butters interjects, feeling a little queasy now that he's thinking about it.

"You're psyching yourself out, dude," Kenny shakes his head. "It's just school. Six months from now we're never gonna see these one horse town hicks again. Go in there and let them think whatever—fuck that, let them think you just got back from juvy or something. Fuck those people."

Butters doesn't care to point out the irony of Kenny don't-kiss-me-in-public McCormick telling him that what people think doesn't matter. He's getting overwhelmed, so much so that he'd rather burrow into a bank of snow and die a slow and miserable death of hypothermia than do anything else.

"Uh, sorry," Kenny says finally after a few moments. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're going through, dude…. Except what I know from Stan, I guess, but. Dude, I don't know what to do. I just want to help you and I don't—" he takes a breath and rests his chin on Butters' shoulder "—just tell me what to do, and I'll do it for you."

Butters rests his forehead on his knees now, and tries really hard to keep the tears to himself. Great, now Kenny's mad at him. Of course he would be—he resists every way Kenny tries to help him and what, still expects Kenny to have a miracle solution when there's nothing he can do? He's the worst.

"Oh, fuck," Kenny mutters. "Butters, I'm not pissed at you or anything. Dude, if you can't go to school today, then don't. I'll skip with you, or I'll take you home… whatever you need, I promise."

Butters sniffles as Kenny pulls him into a hug and kisses him, but shrugs him off after a second. He feels gross, and someone—anyone—touching him does not feel okay right now. Kenny sighs and hangs his head, "I could just drive us somewhere, if you want and where we end up, we end up."

Butters pauses at this, but shakes his head. If he misses his first day back to school, his parents will have his head. He doesn't want them to be any more disappointed in him than they already are. He pushes himself up to his knees and climbs out of the bed of the truck without a word, without looking at Kenny.

"Dude, are you sure you want to—"

"Yeah, Ken," Butters nods, shying away even from the words.

Kenny doesn't touch him again, which is probably a good thing. Hanging out with Kenny today would only make him feel marginally better, and once it was over he'd feel just as bad as he does now, if not worse. If he's going to just end up being miserable, there's no point in doing the stuff that makes him feel okay, or even a little good. If he's just going to end up being miserable, he may as well just go to school and be miserable all day. The therapist said things might start looking up once he started school again and had something to do; maybe that'll end up being true.

He looks up at Kenny as he hops out of the truck, and knows he should be glad that Kenny cares enough about him to say all of this and do all of this. Being happy, getting better… it all sounds like so much effort, and the fact that Kenny can't even cheer him up is really bumming him out.

They walk back into the school, go to their respective classes, and that's sort of it. Butters doesn't feel any better or any worse, but for the most part people do leave him alone. Apart from the occasional staring at his arms or something, at least.

The big news ends up being lunchtime, when out of nowhere Gary Harrison turns up. Butters is sitting with Kenny, Kyle, and Stan, picking the crust off of his sandwich bit by bit, when Gary comes in and sits right beside Stan, like nothing ever happened. Butters would probably be more surprised, elated, what have you if he were a decent, normal person, but Stan is excited enough for all of them. His eyes get big and he suddenly throws his arms around Gary, vehemently welcoming him back and tightening his grip to what has to be the point of pain.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Stan asks, and Gary laughs.

"Sheesh, I was only gone a few weeks, Stan," he says and ducks out from under his arms. He leans on the table, a big old grin on his face, and hums. "I went to Oregon to visit my aunt. I swore Kyle to secrecy… sorry."

Stan whips around and looks like he's about to clobber Kyle into oblivion, but Kyle just rolls his eyes and keeps eating his sandwich like he didn't just spend the entirety of their winter break lying to everyone about where Gary was.

"If I thought he was in danger, I would've said something," Kyle shrugs when it becomes apparent that Stan is out for blood. Stan just rolls his eyes and turns back to Gary, looking at him very imploringly and demanding an explanation. For a moment Butters finds himself wondering to himself how anyone could look past or miss the fact that Stan is one of the most flamboyantly queer people on the planet.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and a text from Kenny pops up.

'jfc stan is a the most flamboyant twat ive ever met'

Butters claps a hand over his mouth at that, hiding his smile and instead turning his full attention to Gary.

"It was a good trip," Gary says with a smile. "I just hung out with my two cousins the whole time. They're a little older than me; they were home from college for the holidays. I don't know, it was just a good time. I didn't have to worry about anything, they didn't get on my case about my family or our religion, which I wasn't expecting… It was really nice to get out of South Park."

Butters can't help the little stab of envy in his chest when he sees Gary smile. He quickly packs his lunch away and, without a word, gets up and leaves the cafeteria feeling short of breath and like he's about to burst into tears at any moment.

"Hey, Butters!"

It's Gary, of course it is. Butters stops in his tracks as he hears the cafeteria doors open and slam, followed by Gary's steady footfalls and his sneakers squeaking on the floor. He flinches when Gary's hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but turns around all the same. He doesn't make eye contact.

"I heard about what happened," Gary says softly. "Kyle told me about it. I'm… so sorry."

Butters feels his insides shrivel up and his chest get tight. This is exactly what he didn't want: pity. Even worse is that this is Gary, and he actually means every single word of whatever it is he's about to say.

"I didn't know it was that bad," Gary continues.

"Neither did I," Butters shakes his head.

Gary sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Well, I'm here for you, dude," he says. "No one deserves to feel so crappy that they try to kill themselves, and that includes you."

Butters doesn't know if he's offended or relieved or just plain annoyed at the sentiment that he doesn't 'deserve' to feel as horrible as he does. There's something about 'deserving' to be happy that doesn't sit right with him. When you do bad stuff, you don't deserve to be happy.

He tried to kill himself.

That's not a good thing. All he ended up doing was making people sad and scared and worried for him, and that's the last thing he wants.

"Yeah, Gary," is all he mutters before he turns around and walks straight to the bathroom. He stays there, cooped up in a stall, until the bell for fifth period rings. He goes to class, tepidly listens to his teacher, speaks when spoken to, and goes home with his mom at the end of the day. Kenny texts him to make sure that he's all right, and Butters says yes, he is, and that he'll see him tomorrow.

He wishes that things would get better, really he does. He wishes there was something to say for the first few weeks of school other than this feeling of listlessness. It's like he's been sucked into a vortex of numbness, where feeling like shit would actually be a step up from feeling like a walking void, like it will never get better.

"Butters, honey," his mom says one Tuesday morning as he's getting ready not for school, but a therapy session. He's flossing his teeth when she appears in the doorway, trying to fish around for some things to say today that might keep Dr. Greene from just staring at him for fifty minutes.

"Honey, Dr. Greene says you're very unresponsive during your session," she says and folds her arms over her chest. "Your father and I know that you need to do things like this at your own pace, but we are paying a lot of good money to get you better again."

The words coat his insides with this shameful gunk. It's speech therapy all over again, it's going to be college, and right now it's this. It's all just awful and it would make him want to cry if he thought anything was worth crying over.

"I'll try, mom," is all he says. They get into the car and drive to the hospital. They wait around for a little bit, and Butters wishes there were more to it than just going through the motions, wishes he had thoughts past how much he wants to feel better. Everything just seems so insurmountable, especially when his progress feels like it's about zero.

When Dr. Greene comes out to fetch him, Butters gets up and follows without even thinking. He's not particularly eager, but anything is preferable to sitting next to his mom while she reads _Answers_ magazine.

"How are you feeling today, Leopold?" Dr. Greene says as he shuts the door. He gestures for Butters to sit, but he doesn't right away. He looks at the books on the shelf, skating over their spines with his fingers.

"Not great," he says, but doesn't move to say anything further. Dr. Greene sighs, undoubtedly adjusting his glasses on his face as he flips to a new page in his notebook.

"Leopold, I know this is difficult for you, but if you want to get better you need to be able to open up," he implores. Butters sighs and hangs his head, a slight flare of irritation rising up in his gut. He's getting pretty sick of people just writing it off, talking about _how difficult it is_, like talking about it is easy or something. Especially a therapist, who's supposed to know about this kind of thing.

"Leopold?" Dr. Greene presses, and Butters openly sighs.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "Reckon I wouldn't know how to talk about it even if I did."

"Well, there's no place like the beginning," Dr. Greene suggests and gestures for Butters to sit down. Butters looks warily from him to the cushiony couch and back again before taking a seat.

"I don't think I know where the beginning is," he admits, and Dr. Greene nods.

"That's not uncommon," he says.

"I mean," Butters continues, "I remember bein' a little kid and feelin' like this." Kenny keeps reminding him that it's been around this long, these horrible feelings have always made him feel inadequate. "I mean, it wasn't as bad as it is now, of course, but… yeah."

"Again, that's very common," Dr. Greene nods again, leaning forward. Butters can tell he's just thrilled that he's opening up. "Leopold, it's important to remember that, even though you've felt some way for so long, it's never too late for healing. It may not feel that way and you may not believe it, but it is possible."

Butters nods. The words feel foreign, like they should almost be unspeakable in that order or something. They make Butters _that_ uncomfortable.

"It's just," he sniffs, keeping his tears at bay. "If feels a little insurmountable right now is all."

"Well no one's saying it won't be hard work," Dr. Greene amends. "You're retraining your mind and your spirit. That's not easy to do."

Butters nods again and gives a half-hearted "yeah," before bending over and hugging his knees. "It just feels like… evil, y'know?" he asks, hoping he's making at least a little sense. "Just, like, a little demon that lives in my brain that tromps down on all the good things."

Dr. Greene nods, like Butters is wise beyond his years, and scratches something down on his notepad. "Well, that's not exactly uncharacteristic of homosexuality, so—"

The words hit Butters' ears, but he doesn't know that h processes them properly. What the **beck** does homosexuality have to do with this? With anything?

"I'm sorry," he frowns. "What?"

Dr. Greene just stares at him before crossing his legs and adjusting his glasses on his face yet again. "Leopold, when we know something is wrong, sometimes it's easy for us to get caught up in it, especially in our disobedient phases of adolescence. When we know something is wrong and we do it anyway, often we find ourselves overcome by crushing guilt. And, if God doesn't have a proper place in our lives, often we find ourselves without a means of fighting against the darkness inside us."

Butters' gut churns more and more with every word Dr. Greene says, and suddenly all of it clicks—the _family friendly_ books on the shelves, the cross displayed prominently on the door, the "science" magazines about God in the waiting room.

"Jesus Christ, you think I tried to kill myself because I like dick?" he asks, and, in a not at all humorous display, Dr. Greene almost has a coronary.

"Leopold," Dr. Greene begins shakily, "I know this is difficult, but let's try to redirect your obscenities to something a little more positive."

Butters is hit by a second wave, this time more intense.

"Oh, my god, you're—" he can't even say it. He shoots up to his feet and storms out into the waiting room, despite Dr. Greene's protests. There's something new bubbling up inside him, something he hasn't felt in a very long time, something that makes him see red when he sets eyes on his mother, who's chatting away with the receptionist behind the front desk.

It's rage, he realizes—pure, unquellable rage.

"De-gay me?" he shouts, causing his mother and a few of the people waiting to jump out of their skin.

"Butters?" his mom queries timidly.

"You're trying to de-gay me," reiterates as he walks toward her, beyond the point of giving a fuck that he's causing a scene. Kenny would be proud. "You think that's what's wrong."

"Sweetheart, it said in your note—"

"My _note_?" Butters asks, eyebrows flying up on his forehead. "Mom, I thought I was gonna be _dead_. I just didn't want you not to know. Where in that note did it say that I've lost count of the dicks I've sucked, so I'm gonna kill myself?"

"Excuse you, young man—" a rather affronted older woman interjects, and Butters immediately stares her down.

"Like you've never done it before," he snaps. "You don't get diamonds like that for cookin' a perfect crown roast, darlin'."

The woman's mouth hangs open as she brings a hand up to cover her diamond tennis bracelet, and suddenly Butters finds himself being ushered out of the office and to the car very quickly.

"How dare you!" his mother shouts. "I know you're unwell, but this has gone far enough! If you're unwilling to get well—"

"And just what's your idea of gettin' _well_?" Butters asks, eyes narrowed to slits.

"I expect you to overcome this affliction," she says, adjusting her purse on her shoulder. "Honey, your father and I love you, and this is so bad that you tried to kill yourself—"

"I didn't try to kill myself because I'm gay," Butters shouts back. "I tried to kill myself because I'm a worthless piece of shit who can't do anything right!" His voice cracks on the last word, which lets him know that he must be crying. His mom is too, and she comes forward to hug him. He lets her, though more because he needs a hug than because he needs comfort from her.

After a moment they part. She takes the travel tissues out of her bag and dabs one lovingly over Butters' cheek, like she used to do when he was a kid.

"You see?" she asks, shaking her head. "You see what awful, horrible things this can make you feel? You wouldn't think that something that seems so little and insignificant could make you feel so awful and say such terrible things about yourself. Anyone who says homosexuality isn't a big deal obviously just has no idea what they're talking about."

**ooooooo**

Kenny is enjoying a marvelous day of playing hooky, thank you so much for asking. His mom is at work, Kevin is still at his girlfriend's place, his dad hasn't come home from whatever ditch he passed out in last night, and Karen is at school. Being that he already jerked off as loudly as he could, he's taken to sprawling out on the couch, smoking weed, and watching reruns of _Reno 911!_

So, imagine his surprise when there's a loud, frantic knock on his front door right as an incompetent drug bust is taking place on his TV. That's a cop knock, so he quickly stashes his pipe under the couch cushions and attempts to make himself look innocent by… acting as not-high as possible.

"Who is it?" he asks as politely as he can manage.

"Ken?" It's Butters. "Kenny, please let me in."

Kenny pulls the door open and, even through his haze, he can see Butters is visibly… pissed?

That's kind of weird.

"Hey, baby," he says with a big smile. "I thought you had therapy today."

Butters groans and covers his eyes with his hands. His hair is growing out slowly but surely—it'll probably be a while before it's back to its adorably shaggy state, but Butters is adorable anyway. Kenny steps aside to let him in, concern brewing inside him as Butters pushes past him.

"Are you… okay?" he asks as he shuts the door. "You don't look so good."

Butters doesn't actually respond to the question, just whips around and comes back with, "Are you here by yourself?"

"Oh… uh, yeah," Kenny nods. "Just me and _le tube_." He gestures to the TV. Butters nods and, without warning, flies forward and crushes his lips against Kenny's. It's a little out of left field, but Kenny misses Butters enough to not want to question this. It takes a moment, but he eventually cradles Butters' head in his hands and deepens their kiss. Butters is touching him like he's been locked up underground without human contact for a hundred years.

Kenny pulls back for breath, a Grade A Doofus smile on his face, because Butters is kissing him again. That's, like, the best thing on the planet, okay?

"That's… hey," he fumbles, knowing he's not doing a very good job of proving that he's not high. Butters grins and runs his fingertips over Kenny's cheeks.

"Hey, darlin'," he hums back, a relieved smile making its way across his face as he brushes at Kenny's bangs with his fingertips. Kenny doesn't know what to do, so he just smiles back and lets Butters bury his face in his neck.

"It's all right," he says, because Kenny's not sure if he's going to cry or something and he wants Butters to know that he can, that it's okay, that he's not going to hurt him, that he never would. "What happened, baby?" he asks.

Butters shakes his head and hugs Kenny closer, and for a moment Kenny finds himself wondering whether or not he'd be upset if Butters suffocated him right now. Butters is just… here, and hugging him, and the thought that he wants to do anything right now other than sit in his room and stare at the ceiling is incredible.

"I'm gay," is all Butters says before he looks up. His eyes look a little pink, like he maybe cried on his way over here or something. "I'm gay," he says again, like it's new information, "I am."

"I know that," Kenny nods, slowly. "Are you—I would've said something, but, like… I thought you knew."

"I did," Butters amends with a quick shake of his head. "I do."

"Butters, you're freaking me out, dude," Kenny says, feeling a little uneasy something in the pit of his stomach. "I just smoked a bunch before you got here, please just tell me you didn't kill your therapist and stuff his body in your trunk or something."

"No! What?" Butters' fair eyebrows screw up on his forehead, and Kenny immediately relaxes. Except Butters doesn't look any less guilty than he did before. "I didn't kill anyone. I just… may have shouted at her. My mom, I mean. A lot."

Kenny raises his eyebrows, and Butters sighs.

"And called her the C-word out in the parking lot at the hospital," he admits, and, okay, Kenny laughs really hard at that.

"Dude, what?" he attempts to cover his mouth when Butters' cheeks tinge pink. "I'm sorry, I know you're probably in deep shit right now, but that's fucking awesome."

Butters doesn't even take the time to look upset at this, or tell Kenny he's grounded, or lament about what an awful son he is. He just braces his hands on his hips and lays in, "Well, she is! A big one! And so is my dad!" He pauses, genuinely confused for a moment as he looks to Kenny, "Can men be that too?"

"I'm all for insult equality," Kenny nods.

"Good," Butters nods. "Anyway, she cried the whole way home an' told me I could stay in my room until I apologized to her."

"You didn't apologize?" That strikes Kenny more than anything. Butters is the kind of guy who apologizes to _someone else_ when they step on his foot.

"That therapist they're havin' me see?" Butters raises his eyebrows, "The _top-dollar reputable specialist_ that was gonna help me get well? Turns out his specialty is Queer Correctional Counseling."

Kenny stares for a second, utterly confused. "What now?"

"He fixes gay people!" Butters exclaims. "My parents think all this is happening because I'm gay. They always do this, too. Any time I have a problem, they always think it's because of somethin' else. I'm never good enough for them. Even if I got an A on a paper, I still didn't vacuum the living room right. If I spent all morning getting ready for a school picture, I still didn't look right. Fall in love, it's someone who has a penis. I do everything wrong, even when it doesn't feel like what I'm doing is wrong until they tell me it is. I hate it!"

Kenny just blinks a few times before his brain sifts through everything and puts it together. To be fair, if he'd known he'd be seeing Butters today, he would've laid off the weed.

"Are you mad at your parents?" he finally asks.

"Damn straight I am!" Butters shoots back, scowling. "I'm pretty motherfuckin' pissed off, actually."

He's flushed red and his face is all pinched and angry, and, honestly, he looks like he could take some motherfuckers down right now. Hand him a gun, rip off his shirt sleeves, and grow out his facial hair and Kenny's pretty sure he'd… well, he wouldn't really do anything, Kenny would just have enough wank material to last him until the end of his life.

"Um," Kenny shifts where he stands and looks at his feet. He can feel his dick starting to get hard in his pants.

_This is not great timing, body._

"You want some weed?" Kenny offers. "I don't have any more, but Kevin has some in his room, I think."

Butters doesn't even bat an eye, "Yeah, that sounds good right now."

Kenny nods and tosses his head toward the stairs, indicating for Butters to follow him. He gets into Kevin's room and raids his usual hiding places, coming up with two ready-made joints and a magazine Kenny recognizes as belonging to his collection that Kevin must've taken from his room.

Kenny locks his door and hands Butters one of the joint and a lighter while he stashes the other away in his sock drawer. He turns just to see Butters light up and take a hit, and knows this was a bad idea. Butters smoking is possibly one of the sexiest things he thought he'd ever see; Butters smoking is downright come-in-your-pants worthy.

"Fuck them, Kenny," Butters shakes his head and lets out a steady stream of smoke. "Fuck them, fuck their shitty rules, just fucking… fuck it."

"You wanna fuck me?"

Wait.

He said that out loud, didn't he?

Butters is looking at him like he's grown a second head, though to his credit he at least doesn't drop the joint in his fingers and start a fire. He takes another drag before handing it back to Kenny, who extinguishes it and tucks it away with the other.

"Say what?" Butters coughs.

Kenny shrugs and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets. "I dunno… I was thinking, like, maybe if you're down for it."

He offers Butters a look, but Butters isn't catching on like he wants. "Dude, I'm fucking horny as dick," Kenny whines. "And you're all pissed and you look like you could rip a fucking hole in the universe or some shit."

"What?" Butters giggles and slaps a hand over his mouth. He must already be buzzed, because he removes his hand and whispers, "Darlin', I don't think that's physically possible."

Kenny sticks out his tongue, which only makes Butters giggle even more, and that's it. He pulls Butters in close and kisses him again, slow and hopefully intense (instead of fumbling and sloppy like he has the tendency to do when he's buzzed), before pulling away and kissing down Butters' neck.

"I think about it all the time," he admits as his lips run over the smooth golden skin just below Butters' ear. "You inside me, fucking me so hard that I can't remember my name after…"

"Seriously?" Butters asks. He's not looking so angry anymore, but that's probably a good thing. Angry sex with someone's dick up your ass probably isn't the best way to go the first time. Kenny can't get it out of his head—he just wants Butters to hold him down and go crazy on him.

"Dude, I can't tell you how many times I've blown my load pretending you're fucking me," Kenny murmurs. "I, um… I used my fingers once a while back. I came so hard."

"N-no kidding," Butters lets out a nervous laugh. "Ken, I've never done that before."

"You've done anal, though, right?" Kenny asks, stroking his fingers over Butters' cheek. Butters just nods, looking more and more aroused by the thought with every touch of Kenny's skin against his. "Well, I haven't. I don't know what I'm doing, and if I hurt you—"

He doesn't want to finish. He doesn't actually think he'd hurt Butters, because he knows he'd be careful and he'd ask Butters for help if he needed it, but he doesn't want that right now. He wants Butters inside him, finally, just so maybe he'll be able to get it out of his goddamned head for once.

"I want you to," Kenny rests his forehead against Butters' temple. "But if you don't want to we can do something else."

Butters shifts, "Well, if you've wanted it for that _long_… I s'pose it's only polite to oblige."

Kenny has to flood his mind with images of his mom in a bikini—stretch marks, C-section scars, varicose veins and all—just to keep from coming right then and there. He plants a big kiss on Butters' lips and goes to get a mini tube of lube (that he may have stolen, shut up) and a condom out of a shoe box under his bed. He's not back on his feet for two seconds before Butters tackles him to the bed and—_fuck_—pins him down.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Butters asks, concern on his face in spite of the fact that it's obvious that Kenny is actually quite stuck under him. "It hurts bad the first time."

"I trust you," Kenny huffs softly. "Plus, a little bit of pain gets my dick hard…er."

Butters looks at him, eyes still a little pink, before he nods and goes back in for a kiss. It's barely anything, though, and before he knows it, Butters has undone and removed Kenny's pants and underwear.

Getting down to business.

Good.

Butters pulls off his shirt and tosses it on the floor with whatever other refuse that's down there before ducking down to kiss Kenny. It's slow and sweet, but Kenny can feel the frantic energy humming so close to the surface.

Kenny lets out a sigh as Butters wraps his hand around his cock and starts pumping him at a painstakingly moderate, even pace. He's already hard; Butters is just being a dirty tease now.

He props himself up when Butters removes his hand, and watches as he grabs the lube from wherever it fell out of Kenny's hand. He doesn't wear his bandages over his arms anymore, though that's only because he can hide his arms under his clothes, it being the dead of winter and all. Butters thinks his arms look ugly, and he'll only let Kenny see them. Kenny's a far cry from thinking they're _beautiful_, or something macabre like that, but they're part of him, and they'll stay a part of him forever.

Kenny's always wondered what it'd be like, to be able to wear your scars on the outside.

Suddenly, there's a slippery digit teasing Kenny's ass, and it feels sort of wonderful.

"Just relax," Butters sighs as he runs his free hand under Kenny's shirt and over his stomach. "I'll make it good."

Butters slips a finger inside him, and Kenny finds himself a little lost in the sensation. Butters' fingers are thick, and his hands are rough, but he's gentle too. It's different from doing it himself, mostly because Butters seems to have a better idea of what he's doing than Kenny did. He's not timid or shy or afraid of what he might find, and certainly doesn't think Kenny should feel any sort of shame if he ends up liking it.

He slips in another finger, which doesn't happen without some resistance and an insanely uncomfortable stretch, but Kenny can adjust. He's been through worse, by far. Butters is at least paying attention, listening for sounds and watching Kenny's twists and twitches to see what makes him sigh and what makes him wince.

Kenny was also entirely sure the prostate thing was a myth until now, since he hadn't found his own back when he'd tried. Butters gets it fairly quickly, though, and fuck.

Just… fuck. Whatever pain that comes with this is worth it, hands down. Kenny's eyes are shut, but he's sure he wouldn't be seeing clearly anyway. He's arching into Butters' touch, looking for something to rub his cock against, but Butters won't touch him. That's probably for the best, since Kenny's pretty sure he's going to come from just this if Butters isn't careful.

Then Butters adds more lube and inserts a third finger, and it's gone from amazing to insanely uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," Butters says softly. "I'm goin' as best I can, but—"

"It's fine," Kenny squeezes his eyes shut to stave off a flow of tears he feels pricking behind his eyes. "I'm just not usually impaled without facing immediate death is all."

Butters must take it for sarcasm, because he laughs like he knows why that's funny. To his credit, he does move slowly and work patiently, and after a few minutes he does pour a little lube over Kenny's wilting erection and start stroking it in time with the motions of his fingers.

It's one of the oddest things Kenny has ever felt.

"How're you doin'?" Butters asks softly, and Kenny moans his response. There aren't really words that go with this—it hurts, but it feels good, right, even if he is fisting his sheets like two motherfuckers.

"I'm gonna do it for real now," Butters says, punctuating with a quick stroke to Kenny's prostate that makes him groan. "You ready?"

"Mm, yeah," Kenny grunts out. He nearly whimpers when Butters withdraws his fingers, and thrusts up against the emptiness above and inside him. He gathers his wits and has enough sense to pull off his shirts while Butters shimmies out of his jeans and underpants.

His cock is hard and leaking and just bobbing there, suspended. It makes Kenny's mouth water, just looking at it.

When Butters reaches to grab the condom, Kenny stops him.

"Um, do you," he gulps for breath. "Do you want to do it without?"

Butters raises his eyebrows and flops back onto his knees.

"I—yeah," he says. "Bein' safe's important, though."

"I know," Kenny pushes himself up again, a little tender already from just Butters' fingers. He doesn't know how to explain that a disease wouldn't stick, even if Butters gave him one, or that he knows he doesn't have any because he hasn't had sex in this body yet. "I'm clean, but… if you don't want to, we don't have to."

"I'm clean too," Butters says, attempting to puzzle it out as he goes. "Would you if it was someone else?"

"Let them come inside me?" Kenny asks. Butters nods, and Kenny shakes his head. "No, dude. If anyone's ever gonna come in me, it's gonna be you. Have you…?"

"No," Butters shakes his head. "I always play safe."

"Well, we don't have to—"

He's silenced by Butters crawling forward and catching his lips in a kiss. There's a bit of rustling, and soon Butters is back and pouring a generous amount of lube over his hand and erection. It just makes it look even bigger and shinier and it sends Kenny's brain into a fucking frenzy. He scoots closer to Butters, who helps him shift into a good position before doing the same.

Then Butters is pushing inside him and Kenny has a brief moment where he thinks he might pass out. Butters is big, but like this it feels like he's going to split Kenny open, right down the middle. Kenny squirms, even though Butters tells him not to, and grips at his sheets so hard he thinks his bones might start popping out of his hands.

"Ken?" Butters asks hazily. "You need me to stop?"

Kenny shakes his head and wraps his legs around Butters' waist. It feels like forever, but eventually Butters is all the way in, just hovering there and kissing Kenny's face and neck as he adjusts.

He tells Butters he can move, only to stop him. This happens about three times before the stretch fades and Kenny's desperate for more. Also, Butters has taken to getting him hard again with his stupidly even strokes and it's making Kenny's balls ache and draw tight with need.

"Fuck, please, baby," Kenny hears himself whimper. "I need you."

Butters starts moving, slowly. Kenny wonders if it was as obvious that he'd never fucked someone before the first time he'd done this with a girl—not that it mattered, since he obviously got better. Butters isn't bad, it's just a little awkward because he'll thrust too sharply or start going too fast, and it's all accidental and stuff that's easily fixed with practice.

Kenny can't wait, because aside from the bungles and the whole 'first time' thing, he thinks he might actually really like this. When they both somehow manage to fall into a rhythm with each other, Kenny's mind starts going fuzzy. He can hear their skin slapping together, smell the sweat and musk permeating the air, and feels his throat going raw from all these otherworldly noises he's making.

Butters takes Kenny in his hand again, working over him in fast uneven strokes that match his thrusts; Kenny can't take it, just throws his head back and groans as he comes hard all over his stomach and chest. It hurts a bit where his body seizes around Butters' cock, but it's apparently the right move since he feels—_feels_—Butters come inside him not a moment later.

They collapse together in a sweaty, sticky mass of bonelessness. Kenny is still moaning on every other breath, mind blown at the fact that this has just happened, that it was not the end of the world, and that it felt just that good. Butters rolls off to the side after a moment, even though Kenny whines and rolls over to curl into him anyway.

"Don't leave," Kenny whimpers.

"'m not," Butters chuckles. "I didn't wanna squish you. You got somethin' we can use to clean up with?"

Kenny whines again, like this is the biggest inconvenience of his life, and rolls around to grab an old towel off the floor. Butters gives him an affectionate roll of his eyes before hopping off the bed and venturing across the hall, into the bathroom. He returns, wiping one corner of the towel, now damp, over his hand. He sits on the edge of the bed and offers it to Kenny.

"What," Kenny raises an eyebrow. "You're not gonna lick it off me?"

Butters raises his eyebrows in a challenge and drops the wet towel onto Kenny's face. Kenny escapes from its clutches just in time to see Butters lean down and run his tongue through the mess on Kenny's stomach.

It makes Kenny's vision go a little blurry, and when Butters looks up and gives him a grin, Kenny knows beyond any doubt that he's ever had about anything, that he loves Butters Stotch.

Butters wipes up the rest of the mess with the towel, before laying it flat under Kenny's ass, so it'll catch any mess. He tucks himself up against Kenny then and pulls him into his arms. It's the best Kenny's ever felt—the safest, the most content, the most loved—and he falls asleep hearing Butters' heart hammering out the same tune right in his ear.

He's not sure how long he's been asleep.

When he wakes, it's not because Butters is gone or because he needs to pee, or anything like that that would wake a normal person. Kenny wakes up because his house is fucked, his life is fucked, and he fell asleep without reminding Butters to shut the door.

"God fucking damn it!" Kevin's voice rattles the walls upstairs, jolting both Kenny and Butters back into consciousness. Kevin's not in the doorway, but in his room down the hall. "You little shitbag, you think you can steal my fucking weed and I'm not gonna know?"

Kenny attempts to roll off the bed and shut the door, but every last inch of him feels too stretched and too sore to do anything apart from scramble under the gross old Salvation Army blanket at the foot of his bed. Butters already looks to be ten steps ahead of him, but by the time either of them mobilizes, it's too late. Kevin is at the door and, in two seconds, goes through his full range of emotions: angry, confused, disgusted, and _livid_.

Only, he doesn't say anything. He's looking a little like he's just flat out short-circuited, like Kenny should expect him to overheat and shut down at any moment. Instead he just drops his ziplock baggie full of joints, turns around, and walks right down the stairs. Kenny and Butters both wince when they hear the door slam shut downstairs.

When he hears the truck refuse to start, Kenny finally snaps back into the game and gets dressed as quickly as possible, informing Butters that he should probably do the same before he runs as best he can downstairs. He's not even to the front door when Kevin barrels in again, red in the face.

"Kevin, I can ex—"

Kevin shoves past him so hard that Kenny loses his balance and falls flat on his ass.

Okay, that fucking hurts. Really, _really_ bad.

He feels tears stinging behind his eyes as he tries, tenderly, to get back up, but Kevin comes back around and shoves him down again. He's got a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and this look on his face that has never meant anything good.

He won't look Kenny in the eye either, but Kenny is also not dead, so he's not sure what the fuck is going on.

Kevin lights his cigarette and cracks his beer in what appear to be the same movement before turning around and walking right back out the door again. The truck starts this time, but something tells Kenny that this is not the end of this by a long shot.

He stays on the floor, may stay here for the rest of his life, actually. If Kevin blabs about this, he's fucked. He's been out of a job for about a month, so his funds are steadily dwindling as it is—if he gets kicked out, he's got no place to go, and no means to find one. He could stay with one of the guys for a few days, but any longer than that and he knows he'd be unwelcome.

Butters comes down the stairs then and helps Kenny to his feet. He's gotten his pants right, but somehow managed to grab Kenny's AC/DC shirt. Kenny looks down and, sure enough, discovers that he's sporting Butters' Sgt. Pepper's shirt.

"He didn't hurt you, did he?" Butters asks, swiping his thumb over Kenny's cheek. He's crying, he realizes, but he shakes his head all the same. He wraps an arm around Butters' waist, and Butters, god bless him, takes it as the hint it is and pulls him into a full bear hug. He still smells like sex, which makes Kenny eerily calm about the whole thing. He supposes that smell just does that to him, though—he knows there's no coming back from this.

Every other part of him is certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is royally fucked.

* * *

**Hey everybody... Allow me to crawl back out into the sunlight. It's been a rough couple of weeks, and this story kind of fell by the wayside. I apologize, but am happy if/that you're still around and reading. It means a lot, especially when I've been feeling the way I have been. I'm going to try to be more diligent, I promise, but graduation comes with looking for a job and a lot of excuse-making. **

**Title is from a _Supertramp_ song called _It's Raining Again_. **

**The alternate title is, as inspired by MargaretDelancy, _Bitches Ain't Shit (But Hoes and Tricks)_ from the Dr Dre song. It is, in my opinion, the angry Butters theme song. **


	14. Just Status Quo

**Chapter 14: Just Status Quo **

Being angry isn't all it's cracked up to be. Butters doesn't like being angry—he never has—but everything his parents say makes the sides of his vision go all blurry and makes his jaw tense up, which makes his teeth hurt and gives him headaches.

So, he just lies about spending time at the library or helping drama club and smokes weed with Kenny at Stark's Pond instead. Weed calms him down, makes his brain feel good and puts him at peace with the world. A lot of that could also be Kenny, who's always nice to him even when his brain gets all hot and works too fast and makes his body hurt.

"Kevin still hasn't come back?" Butters asks just as he takes in a big lungful of smoke. It's still way too cold to be outside at the moment, but they're huddled up together under a tree and it's warm enough for now.

"He called to tell my mom he's staying with his girlfriend while he finishes this job," Kenny shakes his head and takes the joint back from Butters.

"You think he'll tell your parents?" Butters coughs out a plume of smoke. "About findin' us, I mean?"

Kenny rolls his eyes, like he can't bear to spare it another thought, and takes a hit.

"I don't know," his voice comes out strained as he holds his breath for as long as he can. Butters takes the joint back and inhales again as Kenny continues, "He's homophobic _and _a fucking idiot, so I don't see why he wouldn't."

Butters laughs, letting out a cloud of smoke that Kenny (of course) chomps at, attempting to salvage it. It only makes Butters laugh harder, "You look like a fish."

Kenny shoves him and takes the joint from him, pausing momentarily to kiss Butters on the jaw. Butters feels warm, sweet things bubble up inside him and nuzzles the curve of Kenny's neck as he takes another drag and continues, "I don't know... I could deal with getting kicked out, I guess. Couch surf until I'm old enough to sign an apartment lease. I just hate leaving behind Karen, y'know?"

"Alas, I was not cursed with the yoke of siblinghood," Butters shakes his head and gives a wistful sigh. Kenny prods him in the side.

"Jackass," he mutters. He takes in one last drag before offering the rest of the joint to Butters, which he takes gladly. "I'd hate to leave my mom too," Kenny says and lets out the smoke. "I mean, I know she can take care of herself and everything, but I'd miss her."

Butters raises his eyebrows, which only makes Kenny more defensive. "Dude, she means well," he insists, only to tack on as an afterthought, "in her own way."

Butters shakes his head and brings the joint to his lips, "They all do, don't they?" He finishes off the joint and flicks the remains into the snow at their feet. They go to sit on a bench at the pond—or, Kenny sits on the bench and Butters lies down with his head on Kenny's lap. That way Kenny will play with his hair, and he likes when Kenny does that.

"Y'know," Butters begins as Kenny's fingers stroke softly over his forehead. "Call me crazy, but… would it be so bad if you told your parents? Like, before Kevin can?"

"Jesus Christ, are you insane?" Kenny laughs. "At least if Kevin tells them I won't be in the room. I tell 'em, I'm at point blank range, man. Getting a bullet to the head isn't as fun as it sounds." He flicks Butters right in the center of the forehead for emphasis, only to bend down and kiss it better a moment later.

Butters' eyebrows pinch together of their own accord—Kenny's always saying weird stuff like that. Everyone just brushes it off, because Kenny's kind of a weird guy in general, but something about hearing it this time makes Butters pause and reach up to brush his fingers over the center of Kenny's forehead.

"Effective, though, I bet," he says, and Kenny raises an eyebrow.

"Dude, cut that shit out," he settles back against the bench. "Dying isn't fucking fun, all right? You should know, you almost did."

Butters' frown deepens at this, thoughts fuzzy and inhibitions long gone, and he says, "Maybe it's not fun, but you only have to go through it once. Then you're dead, so it doesn't matter."

Kenny shakes his head, obviously uncomfortable. "Whatever man, let's not talk about it anymore," he mutters. Butters sighs and just looks up at the clear blue sky above them. He feels those thoughts creeping up on him, the ones he only gets when he's left with nothing else to ponder.

… Or when he gets really, really high, which he supposes he is right now.

"Do you ever stop an' think about how small we are?" he asks.

Kenny looks back down at him, and for a moment Butters is certain he's going to get a tired, sourpuss eye roll. Instead he just gets a laugh, "I love when you get stoned, it's fucking incredible."

"No!" Butters laughs and halfheartedly swats at Kenny's face (and misses). "I'm bein' serious, jerk. It's like… everything else in the universe is so giant, and we're so little. Everything about life just seems so pointless, you know? Like, bein' worried about stuff—what's the point when the sun's just gonna explode one day and obliterate not just everything on the planet, but everything in the solar system. Nothing matters. How in the hell are we supposed to deal with that."

Kenny looks like he's pondering this hard before he looks up at the sky too, like he's searching for something he knows he'll never find. "Then if we're so small and insignificant, isn't it more amazing that we were even born?" Kenny finally asks. Butters must give him a weird look, because Kenny laughs then and hangs his head. "One of us has to look on the bright side, dude."

"You didn't make that up on your own, did you?" Butters asks.

"Uh, that's totally Monty Python, I think," Kenny laughs. And then Butters laughs, and Butters can't tell how long they're laughing, just that they finally stop long enough to kiss in plain sight on this bench, for all the world to see. That's definitely the weed, he thinks, because there's no way either of them would be comfortable enough to do that otherwise.

Butters checks his watch when Kenny pulls away and sighs. "I told Wendy I'd sit in on auditions for the spring musical, since they're not gonna let me be in it," he says.

"I'm sorry, baby," Kenny ticks his tongue against his teeth and strokes over Butters' hair. They decided on performing _Grease_ a while ago, and Wendy insists on picking up as much slack as she can where she's prohibited Butters from helping. "You need to focus on getting _better_," she says, like Butters an invalid for crying out loud.

"I'm already betting that Bridon kid gets cast as Danny Zuko," Butters shakes his head. "He's not even in the club—doesn't even _like_ performing, an' he's gonna do it anyway just 'cause he knows we don't have anyone else."

Butters hauls himself off the bench and stumbles a bit on his feet, which makes Kenny laugh and hold him steady when he stands.

"_Grease_," he says as they walk in the direction of Butters' car. "Is that the one with, uh… _'tell me more, tell me more, like does he have a car'?_"

Butters laughs, because Kenny singing (even half-assed and stoned) is one of the greatest things on the planet. "Yeah, that's the one," he says. "_Those su-hu-mmer nights_," he sings back and Kenny laughs.

Butters lets Kenny drive ("I'm not even buzzed, I promise"), and they make it back to the school with only minutes to spare. They're auditioning boys today, while the girls were yesterday; this means that, apart from the collection of teachers they've gotten to help with casting, Wendy is sitting in the back of the auditorium when they get there.

"I'm just scoping out the talent," Wendy insists as Butters sits beside her, taking only a moment to identify the smell on his jacket before clapping a hand over her mouth. "Butters, are you _high_?" She mouths the last word, which makes Kenny roll his eyes and tell Butters to come get him behind the school when he's done.

"It helps, Wendy," Butters mumbles and kicks his feet up on the back of his chair. "Honest, I'm just doin' it 'cause it helps me feel less shitty."

"Don't burn out on me, _please_," she begs.

"I won't," Butters sighs and leans to rest his head of Wendy's shoulder. "I wish I could be in this with you."

"Oh, Butters," she says, a certain fondness in her voice that she tends to use only when addressing Butters. "We're gonna have fun anyway. And as long as you're okay, I'm happy."

The auditions start and, honestly, there's a little more talent in these guys than Butters first anticipated. A couple of freshman would make some good greasers, and will definitely serve the club well when the seniors leave. Stan sings a song with his guitar, which reminds both Butters and Wendy that Stan is actually a talented performer. Bridon's audition is flawless as always, of course, and Wendy lets out a little whine at the thought of having to perform alongside him.

"Was that the last one?" Wendy whines when she sees the teachers sitting a few rows up start to deliberate.

"Shit, I guess so," Butters sits up. He's starting to come down, and wonders if Kenny will smoke with him again before taking him home. In fact, the only thing that stops him from going forth and seeking to complete this task is the boy in question walking out on stage and giving the teachers a little wave.

"Uh, hi," he grins. "I'm not on any list or anything… It's kind of an impromptu thing."

"Oh, all right," the drama teacher gives a wary reply. "Do you have a monologue, or a song to sing?"

Even from all the way in the back of the theater, Butters can see Kenny's face fall. "I don't really know any of the songs from the movie… uh, play, I mean," he says.

"Well, do you have any songs you know that sound like the songs in _Grease_?" she asks. Kenny pauses and thinks, so she offers, "Something that you not only know you can sing, but something you know you'd be able to _perform."_

As Kenny thinks, Butters settles back into his seat. Wendy is stock still next to him, and wonders aloud, "Can he even sing, or is he just being an ass like the rest of his friends."

"I got ten bucks that says that boy belts out Aretha Franklin," Butters laughs to himself, and Wendy rolls her eyes.

"You're both high," she groans and flops back with Butters.

Kenny turns around then, and for a second Butters thinks he might run off the stage. But no, he turns back around and starts in, in this raspy, flawless voice, "_Alarm goes off at seven/and you start uptown—"_

"Oh, my god," Wendy murmurs and sits back up. "He's doing—what is he doing?"

Butters can't talk for a second; he's stunned into momentary silence as Kenny's voice washes over him. Then he starts laughing as the song starts picking up and Kenny starts belting out with all his heart.

"Little Shop of Horrors," Butters sinks in his seat. _"Skid Row_."

And he's singing the fuck out of it, too. He doesn't even need a microphone, and with every word he becomes more and more engrossed in the performance. It's good to see Kenny let go like that—he looks happy up there, like singing and performing gives him more joy than he would ever allow himself otherwise.

"_Downtown/Where the hop-heads flop in the snow/Down on Skid Row,"_

"He's… he's good," Wendy whispers, impressed.

"I know," Butters watches, awestruck as Kenny absolutely loses himself in it. Kenny is gorgeous up there, and, if Butters is being honest, the whole thing is a little arousing. Butters shifts so his jacket is draped over his crotch—not using it to shield what's there so much as using it as a precaution—and shifts low in his seat.

"He doesn't even need a microphone," Wendy marvels, seemingly hours behind Butters, and glances over at him. He must look even less subtle than he thought. "I—Butters, do you have an _erection_?" she hisses.

"What!" Butters angles himself away from her. "You don't know, all right? Keep them judgin' eyes to yourself, sister."

Wendy rolls her eyes and watches with a little more dread (just a little bit) as Kenny moves flawlessly from one part of the song to another.

"Oh, god, he's doing all the parts, isn't he," Wendy sounds like she wants to be annoyed, but she simply isn't. The teachers don't even stop him—they're as enthralled as Wendy and Butters. There's an undeniable truth in the performance, something so utterly believable as Kenny belts out, "_Please won't somebody say I'll get out of here/Someone gimme my shot, or I'll rot here"_ that makes Butters realize something he's pretty sure he's always known.

"_Gee it sure would be swell to get out of here,_"

Kenny is just as miserable here as Butters is.

_"Bid the gutter farewell and get outta here,"_

He wants to get out of here just as badly as Butters does.

"_I'd move heaven and hell to get out of Skid_,"

… maybe he even wants to get out of there _with_ Butters, as crazy as it sounds.

"_I'd do I don't know what to get out of Skid,"_

Maybe if Butters wasn't such an immobile jackass half the time, too afraid of his own shadow to do anything about it.

_"But a hell of a lot to get out of Skid,_"

Oh god, it feels like Kenny is singing _right at_ _him_ now.

_"People tell me there's not a way out of Skid,_"

And it's making Butters' chest feel funny and his buzz diminish considerably.

"_But believe me I've gotta get outta Skid Row!"_

He holds the last note so long and so perfectly that it does something funny to Butters' insides. The teachers go against audition decorum and actually stand up and applaud him. Wendy follows their example, and Butters would too if he didn't have an erection the size of Florida in his jeans.

When Kenny trots off stage, Wendy looks down at Butters and tosses her head at the door. "Come on, I wanna go talk to him."

"You go," Butters offers her a smile. "I-I gotta just sit here an'… soak in that last resonating note."

Wendy just rolls her eyes and grabs him by the wrist. "I could care less about your erection, Butters," she says.

"Aw," Butters pouts as he's toted out of the auditorium. He looks down at his crotch and insists, "She didn't mean it, li'l fella. Don't cry."

Wendy actually stops at that and holds up her hand. "Did you—" she stops herself there and shakes her head. "You perv!" she smacks him on the arm.

"What!" Butters laughs, "He's a crier, what can I say?"

"You are not allowed to let Kenny McCormick pervert your mind, young man," Wendy smacks him again. He laughs, which means, okay, his buzz isn't entirely gone, but the pit in his stomach is starting to come back for real.

When Kenny comes out the stage door around the side of the building, Butters gets a little thrill of excitement. He hasn't felt that kind of thing in what seems like forever, but Kenny is all flushed and has that boneless, post-performance look that makes Butters want to kiss the dazed smile right off his face.

"Was I okay?" he asks as he walks over to Wendy and Butters.

Wendy gets to a response before Butters can. Today's preferred method appears to be smacking, as she smacks him on the shoulder and all but shouts, "You've been holding that fucking much back on us, you dirty asshole?!"

"Stop hitting me, Jesus!" Kenny moves to duck behind Butters, which is funny enough because Butters is at least four inches shorter than him.

"Oh, you think I won't hit him to get to you?" Wendy asks and starts smacking them both. "You are both unimaginable dickheads!"

"What did I do?" Butters asks.

"Dude, Wendy," Kenny laughs, "It was just a joke, okay? I'm not going to be in your play or anything, it's fine."

"Are you kidding me!" Wendy shouts. "Kenny, you were _perfect_."

Kenny looks genuinely stunned by this, and he takes a step away from both of them. "You guys are fucking high," he laughs, more nervous this time. "Guys, I don't do this kind of shit, okay? I did it—" Kenny falters and looks just past Butters' head. "I did it because you were upset and I thought it'd cheer you up."

"You _were_ singing to me!" Butters yelps, a little more accusatory than he'd meant, and claps his hand over his mouth.

"No!" Kenny defends really quickly. "I just—did that thing where you pick a spot on the back wall and you focus on it."

There's a moment of silence that Wendy lets pass before she starts in, "Kenny, you're… amazingly talented," she says. "And I'm not blowing smoke up your ass or anything like that. You're genuinely good."

Kenny doesn't look like he has anything to say to this, so he just stares at the concrete under Butters' shoes and keeps his mouth shut.

"If," Wendy begins. "Kenny, if you were cast in the play, you'd be in it, right?"

Kenny looks up at Wendy with uncertainty behind his eyes, and then to Butters, like Butters can answer the question for him. Butters just lets a deep breath out of his lungs and folds his arms over his chest.

"You really are good," he says. "No one'll force you to be in it if you don't want, but," he stops there and does a quick look around, just to make sure no one's watching, and pulls Kenny into a quick kiss that makes Wendy give a soft, "oh!" behind them.

"Kenny, if I were even half as good as you, I'd want everyone to know," he strokes his hand over Kenny's cheek. "All the people who've pissed on you over the years and told you you're no good? Nothin' like a final hurrah to prove 'em all wrong."

"Oh, my god," Wendy rolls her eyes. "Kenny, don't do it out of spite, do it because you love it. And while you were up there singing that song—which I have no clue how you know by heart, by the way—"

"I had a lot of downtime at the video store," Kenny supplies.

"You know it just from watching it!?" Wendy exclaims and hits him again. "Kenny, people actually have to _practice _this kind of thing. Normal people don't just watch a movie a few times and know the songs _perfectly_. How many more times do we have to tell you how good you are before you'll listen?"

Kenny stuffs his hands in the pockets of his parka and scuffs his boot on the concrete. "It was just to make you feel better," he murmurs, hoping only Butters can hear, but Wendy must catch it too. Butters wraps his arms around Kenny's shoulders and pulls him into a hug.

"No one'll make you do anything you don't want to, darlin'," he says. Dealing with Kenny and focusing on Kenny is much easier than his own stuff.

"He won't," Wendy jumps in. "I will."

Butters shushes her and holds Kenny close to him, giving Wendy a frown before kissing Kenny in his hair.

"Oh, my god," Wendy groans. "You guys are the worst kind of couple, I swear."

And it's probably the leftover buzz, or even Kenny's residual performance high, but they both lay over-the-top sloppy kisses all over each other, just to be assholes. Only then it turns into them really kissing, and Butters can feel his erection slowly coming back to life. And while the display _does_ get rid of Wendy, it also leaves Butters wanting to do much more than just stand behind the auditorium and make out.

"Kenny," he murmurs. "Kenny, we're outside," he pushes Kenny away and swipes his hand over the trail of spit on his cheek and jaw. Kenny has this dazed look on his face, all hazy and smiley—it does something to Butters, makes his heart happy even though his brain is starting to hurt again.

"Are your parents home?" Kenny asks.

Butters lets himself grin and pats Kenny's chest. "I like where your head's at," he nods. His dad's been more and more scarce lately, and his mom has been spending time with her church lady friends in the hopes that they'll help pray her son's gay away. Butters could stand to fool around in his own bed for once, instead of on Kenny's lumpy mattress.

They rush back to Butters' house, with Butters driving this time, and upon seeing that neither of his parents are home nearly fall over themselves running up to Butters' room.

"How long do we have, you think?" Kenny asks as he shucks his parka. He's wearing a shirt he stole from Butters, a yellow one that Butters has been looking for these last couple of days.

"I don't know," Butters shrugs and discards his jacket too. "Let's not waste time talkin' about it."

The only nice thing he's discovered about feeling so shitty is that sex actually helps. It might not if it was with anyone else, but with Kenny it feels good. Kisses feel good and touching feels good, and having someone pressed against him who doesn't think he's a total failure of a human being is actually quite nice. Kenny also loves Butters enough to let him come inside him, and that never fails to make Butters' head reel.

"Watchin' you singin' up there made me so hard," Butters breathes as Kenny starts undoing his pants. "The way you get so into it… reminds me of bein' inside you. You just forget everything and lose yourself."

Kenny looks at him with this glazed over look in his eye and gulps back something in his throat as Butters nips at his chin and murmurs, "So fucking sexy."

Butters finds himself slammed back against the bedroom door for that, with Kenny's mouth on his and hands in his pants. In what feels like seconds flat they're both out of their pants, and Kenny is rooting around in Butters' closet for his bag of tricks, cock bobbing tantalizingly between his legs.

"Ever done it standing up?" Kenny asks as he grabs the bottle of lube from the bottom of the duffle bag, which only results in Butters giving him a look.

"Do I look like the kinda fella who's never been fucked against a door to you?" Butters laughs, and Kenny all but growls as he pins Butters to the door and starts kissing his neck. Butters loves it: it's enough to get his mind away from all his yucky thoughts, to electrify every single part of him.

It's almost as though in this moment he can forget all about everything. There is no depression, there is no being poor, there's nothing like that. In this moment, the world is just the two of them—just Butters' wrapped around Kenny, just Kenny's cock pressed against his, just Kenny's slick fingers sliding into him and stretching him open.

Of course, Kenny starts talking the second after he strokes against that little bundle of nerves, just when Butters' head thunks back against the hard wood behind him. "I lied," he hums against Butters' jaw. "I was singing to you."

It's simultaneously the sweetest and corniest thing Butters has ever heard, and not a moment later Kenny has him turned around and pinned.

"Condom?" Kenny asks, and Butters whines.

"If I get to come in you, you get to come in me," he huffs, fingernails already biting into the paint on the door. He hears the lube open and close one more time before he gets the sweet stretch of Kenny's erection pressing inside him. It's kind of a wonky angle, since Kenny's taller than him, but he starts thrusting nice and slow and _goddamn_ if it doesn't feel incredible.

"Shit," Kenny rests his forehead on Butters' shoulder and stops, trying to steady out his breathing. "Um. Let me know if I fuck up," he gulps, like he's only just realized what he's doing.

"You okay?" Butters turns his head and asks. "We could go on my bed if you want."

Kenny swallows again, bringing his hand up to ruffle Butters' hair, and asks, "Do you want to?"

Butters grins, even with his cheek pushed into the door. "No, I like it like this," he replies. "I'm fine, Ken, I promise."

Kenny nods, hiding his face in the crook of Butters' neck as he starts moving again. He's careful, but not so much that Butters feels like he's going to have to take the reins and guide him through it. Kenny's a fast learner when it comes to this kind of thing.

It's enough to make Butters' brain go fuzzy after a while, rendering him a whimpering, useless mass as Kenny starts fucking him harder and faster.

It doesn't last an impressively long time. In fact it's just long enough for Kenny to reach around and start stroking Butters' cock in haphazard time before he bucks up into Butters so hard that the wall shakes, and groans so loud that the neighbors can probably hear. Kenny's come is inside him—the thought alone is enough to push Butters close to the edge. Then Kenny pulls back and wets the tips of his fingers before turning his attention back to Butters' erection.

"You always taste good," he sighs and captures Butters' earlobe between his teeth. That's all it takes- Butters comes hard on the end of a desperate shout, all over the door and Kenny's hand, bucking and writhing even though Kenny is holding him still as best he can.

"Jeez," Butters lets out a breathy laugh as Kenny kisses the back of his neck.

"That was a big one," Kenny says as he pulls his hand away from Butters' cock. "Did you not jerk off this morning or something?"

Butters laughs and moves so Kenny slides out of him. He has to clean up that mess before it dries, or leaks onto the floor and stains the carpet.

"I popped a stiffy in the theater," he says as he grabs a few tissues off his desk and mops up the door. "Almost creamed my shorts near the end there."

Kenny smiles at this and presses into Butters as he kisses him, soft and tender and completely mind-altering. Before it was too quick, too hurried, with need too insistent. Now they can touch each other the way they like to, slow and, dare Butters even think it, _sensual_.

Even thinking the word makes him feel like an old lady.

Then he hears the front door open and close downstairs and he's immediately reminded of the world he left behind.

"Fuck," he mutters and tosses the tissues in the trash. "Someone's home. You gotta get outta here before they send me away to a military school in Alaska or somethin'."

He and Kenny get dressed at lightning speed, but it doesn't help. Judging by the sound of the footsteps coming up the stairs and heading down the hallway, his mom is about two seconds away from getting an eyeful of Kenny's dick. All this and still Butters is too dense to think to lock his door before his mom can open it.

"Butters, I was thinking for di—Oh, my word!" she yelps and shuts the door again. "Oh, absolutely not!" she raves out in the hallway. "That is absolutely the last straw, young man," she opens the door again and shoots daggers at Kenny. "And you—I don't think your parents are going to appreciate hearing about this one little bit."

Butters' face falls as he looks over at Kenny, who's only just zipping up the front of his pants when he blurts out a pretty confused, "Uh, what?"

"If you think this isn't getting back to your parents, young man, then you are _sorely _mistaken," Linda shakes her head and adjusts her purse on her shoulder.

"Mom, you can't tell Kenny's parents!" Butters yelps. "They don't know about him, you don't just _out_ people."

His mom cocks her head at him and gives him what she must think is a very sympathetic look. "Sweetheart, I'm helping you both," she says. "The sooner his parents are made aware, the sooner you both can start getting better. Kenny, you come with me," she says, and then turns a hardened look on Butters, "and if I come home and see you anywhere but at your desk with your nose in a book, mister, you will be in for it."

Kenny doesn't move, and when Linda is halfway down the hall she comes down the hall again and reappears in the door. "I am going to have a chat with your mother and you are either going to come with me or I will call the police to get you off of my property," she insists sharply.

"Mom!" Butters snaps, but Kenny throws his hands up and shakes his head.

"It's fine," he says to Butters, and before he follows Linda he grabs Butters' face and plants a big kiss on his lips. Linda drags him off for that, slamming Butters' door behind them and leaving Butters feeling cold and empty and more utterly alone than he's felt in weeks.

**oooooo**

Kenny's heart is in his throat the entire ride back to his house. The Stotches never fail to make Kenny feel intensely uncomfortable, and the fact that Linda refuses to speak the entire ride home makes Kenny uneasy as all hell.

Truth be told, Linda Stotch is a terrifying woman, and Kenny wouldn't put it past her to drive him into a river and let him drown. The only thing that pacifies him about that, for once, is that he'd be able to come back.

Unfortunately, where they end up is just as bad. They're at his house, and his and Kevin's truck is in the driveway.

Great. If his dad's home and/or conscious, that will just be the cherry on top of the whole thing.

Kenny trudges behind Mrs. Stotch as she walks briskly up to the house and raps her knuckles smartly against the front door. He only just comes to stand next to her when his mom pulls the door open and gives Kenny a puzzled look. Hopefully, she's sober… or, maybe it would be better if she wasn't.

"Uh, can I help you, Linda?" she asks. Mrs. Stotch adjusts her bag on her shoulder and puts a stray strand o hair back in place atop her head.

"I have something to discuss with you, Carol," she says. "It's about your son."

His mom gives him a stern look as she lets Mrs. Stotch in the house and asks, harshly, "Goddamn it, Kenny, are you blowin' up people's mailboxes again?"

"No, ma!" Kenny snaps. He did that _once_ when he was thirteen, and now that's all anyone ever accuses him of. He sees Kevin and Karen watching TV, and he prays Mrs. Stotch will have the decency to ask them to clear out before she starts in with—

"I came home and found your son _defiling_ my poor Butters."

Or not.

Kenny looks over to the couch to see that Kevin and Karen have both stopped watching TV and are now paying full attention to the scene unfurling before them. For a split second, Kenny thinks Kevin might look as worried as Karen, but he quickly gets up not a second later and disappears upstairs.

His mom, meanwhile, is standing with her arms folded across her chest as she stares at Mrs. Stotch.

"Just what are you talkin' about, Linda?" she finally asks.

"I am talking about _sex_," Mrs. Stotch whispers the last word. And when Kenny's mom doesn't respond further than raising her eyebrow, she becomes unbelievably enraged. "Carol, your son is-is-is," she flails rather spectacularly before bursting out, "Your son is _perverting_ my poor Butters!"

Kenny can't help it, he laughs at that. Both his mom and Mrs. Stotch shoot him a look for that, and Kenny has to remind himself that he is not allowed to make a comment about how Butters was the one who went down on him in a back alley first.

"He's not even sorry!" Mrs. Stotch exclaims.

"Of course I'm not sorry," Kenny counters back, anger flaring up inside him. "I didn't do anything wrong to him and it's none of _your_ business, so I shouldn't have to be sorry to you."

"You are corrupting my son," Mrs. Stotch scowls. "And while my son is living under my roof and is still under my care, he _is_ my business."

"Yeah, now that he tried to kill himself he's your business, right?" Kenny snaps. "Now that everyone's watching your every move, sure he's your fucking business."

The outburst surprises everyone, including his mom, who has been weirdly cool throughout this entire thing. Karen is suddenly next to him with a comforting hand on his shoulder while Mrs. Stotch's head starts shaking back and forth.

"You have no right," she says softly. "Absolutely no right."

"Yeah, the same way you have no right to come over to my home and make a scene, Linda," Carol insists. "I have other things I need to worry about in my life, Linda. Tryin' to put food on the table is a higher priority than where my son decides to put his pecker."

Mrs. Stotch hums and cocks her head. "And where exactly does smoking crack rank on your list of priorities?" she asks. "One call and I could have these two in the hands of CPS faster than you can say 'foster care'."

Honest to God, Kenny has to actually hold Karen back after that. She's as scrappy and hotheaded as the rest of them—she is a McCormick after all. Mrs. Stotch just smiles at the three of them before staring directly at Kenny and says, "If you come anywhere near my son again, that will happen."

She offers Carol a smile. "Have a nice day," she beams, and with that she's gone.

Kenny's blood goes cold as Carol watches Mrs. Stotch drive away out the window. She slaps the blinds shut and rounds on Kenny, demanding, "You'd better start talkin' fast, young man."

Kenny looks at Karen for a bit of back up, but all he gets is a shrug. So Kenny looks at his feet and takes a breath. "I like guys," he says. "I wasn't seeing a girl, I was seeing Butters, and I'm just gonna go up to my room for a while."

He doesn't wait for a response, just trudges up the stairs, past where Kevin is lurking in his doorway, and shuts himself up in his room, hopefully for good. There is nothing short of snuggling up next to Butters and falling asleep on top of him that will soothe this horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. And if he ever gets caught around Butters again, it's more than likely that Mrs. Stotch _will _call CPS and get him and Karen removed from his parents' care.

For good this time, probably. Not that it matters too much for Kenny, since he'll be eighteen later this year, but Karen's still got a few years left.

Maybe Kenny could steal her away once he turned eighteen or something and they could live together down in Denver.

"What a fucking gash."

Kenny looks over at his door and frowns. Kevin is there, arms folded and looking anywhere but where Kenny.

"Fuck off, Kevin," Kenny replies weakly, not feeling up to the impending fight.

"Shoulda fucking known no good would come out of you being a corn-holing fairy princess," Kevin shakes his head. "Now you're gonna get your ass and Karen's put in foster care. Good fucking job."

"Off," Kenny reiterates, this time into his pillow. "I need you to fuck it."

"Shut your cocksucker, Liberace," Kevin gives a tired groan. "That's what got you into this fucking mess."

Kenny sits up on his bed and looks Kevin right in the eye. "Since you seem to be so fucking interested in the goings on of cocksucking queers like myself, how about I give you a play by play of how I just blew my load in the school faggot's ass. Is that what you want, Kevin? Because I swear to god I'm two seconds away from telling you all about how his ass just _swallowed_ my cock so nice—"

"Aw, fucking disgusting!" Kevin shouts, face all contorted like he's just seen a mass open grave site. "That's exactly what the fuck I caught your faggot asses doing the other day, isn't it?"

"Ah, no," Kenny stands now, walking over to grab his door. "I'm afraid that was when I had another guy's spunk oozing out—"

"Ugh, you let him—aren't you fuckers supposed to use condoms and shit so you don't get AIDS or whatever?"

Kenny's face falls immediately at this. Kevin seems to realize what he's said too, but it doesn't keep Kenny from opening his mouth and asking, "Kevin, are you saying you'd care if your butt-reaming pole-smoker of a little brother died of AIDS?"

Kevin's face contorts back into a snarl as he grabs the doorknob and slams the door shut.

Okay, Kenny definitely had not been expecting that.

He crawls back into his bed and burrows under his covers. If he tries he can still smell Butters on them from where they napped through fifth and sixth period yesterday. He likes lying around with Butters and smoking weed with him—Butters is actually visibly better when he smokes, and since his parents are insane and won't get him the help he needs… well, Kenny's glad he can be of some assistance.

His door opens up a while later, and he hears his mom ask, "Can I come in?"

"Yeah," Kenny answers from under his covers. The door closes and soon his mattress dips slightly under his mom's weight. Kenny takes a breath and braces himself for the worst.

"You don't think I believe for a second that you don't like girls anymore, do you?" she asks. Kenny frowns and turns over, pulling his blankets off his face and giving her a puzzled look.

"That's not what I said," he says. "I just said I like boys."

"That's what I thought," his mom shakes his head and pats him on the leg. "Your brother's down there ranting and raving about how you could just decide not to like girls anymore."

Kenny blinks a few times, letting the words sink in before he wonders aloud, "You're not mad?"

"Oh, baby," she sighs and strokes her hand over his hair. "I'm not fond of it, I won't lie to you... but you mean a lot more to me than whoever you sleep with, I did mean that."

It's not perfect, but it makes Kenny so much happier than he thought he could be. He sits up and pulls his mom into a hug. She doesn't hesitate either, just hugs him right back.

"And if that woman tries to get you and your sister taken away, we'll give her hell," his mom says and pulls back. She gives him a look that's somewhere between fondness and genuine bewilderment as she strokes a loving hand over his cheek, but decides to put aside whatever is troubling her and kisses Kenny on his forehead.

"I love you, baby," she says and stands to leave.

"Mom," Kenny stops her. She turns back to him, and Kenny asks, "You're not going to tell dad, are you?"

"Good lord, I'm not retarded," she gives him this look that makes him laugh in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Your dad doesn't have to know a thing about it."

Kenny's shoulders drop at that and he gives his mom a shaky smile. "Thanks," he says, and then remembers as soon as she's to the door. "Mom?"

"Yes, baby," she turns back, a little more impatient this time.

"I think I might be in a musical in spring," he looks down at his hands. "Would you come see me if I was?"

He glances up at her just as she gives him a tired smile. "Only if they let you use that beautiful voice of yours," she says. "I have the night shift tonight, so I'll be out of here in a little bit. Don't let Kevin give you too much of a hard time."

Kenny smiles back at her and nods, and with that she shuts the door behind her.

As weird as it is to think after today, Kenny thinks things might actually end up being a little… okay.

* * *

**Hi everyone, I'm really sorry for the wait. I can't promise speedier updates, but I do promise that I'm going to finish this story! I have not abandoned it. **

**Chapter title is from the same song Kenny sings: _Skid Row,_ from the musical _Little Shop of Horror's_**


	15. Everything's Coming Up Roses

**Chapter 15: Everything's Coming Up Roses**

"What in the hell is a Danny Zuko?"

Kenny ignores the blatant eye roll of some freshman theater twat in the making and the disappointed groans of a few girls who give Wendy the stink eye as they walk past.

"Well, it's no Teen Angel, I'll tell you that much," Butters shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets as he scans over the cast list.

"It's the lead!" Wendy exclaims and smacks Kenny on the arm. "Jesus, Kenny, you really must have blown them away." Even as she says it, Wendy looks like was not expecting this outcome in the slightest. Kenny, on the other hand, feels his limbs go numb as Butters gives him a happy grin and brings him into a hug.

"Congratulations, darlin'," he hums and kisses Kenny on the cheek. Kenny feels like a big ball of nerves at the thought of getting up and performing for everyone. Butters does tend to have a calming effect on him, though, and maybe having him there with him will make it all a lot easier.

Maybe.

"I'm not even mad about having to inevitably kiss you," Wendy shakes her head as she checks, yet again, to make sure that her name matches up with Sandy Dumbrowski on the cast list. Kenny winces at the idea of kissing Wendy, meanwhile, and casts a sidelong glance at Butters, who just shrugs and says, "What? I have an amazing ass, I'm not worried."

Wendy gives a tired roll of her eyes as Kenny laughs and shifts closer to Butters. Then suddenly Wendy rounds on him and, very severely, declares, "This means you have to commit to this shit, asshole. Be at rehearsals and be on time, and _actually put in effort_."

"Um, okay?" Kenny offers. Butters, in turn, just pets his hair and tells him not to listen to the scary lady.

Kenny doesn't know if he can tell Butters enough how much he loves him without sounding insane, so he just pulls him into a hug and buries his face in his neck.

"Aw, don't worry about her," Butters chuckles as Wendy stalks off down the hall toward the auditorium. "She'll be better once her college acceptance letters come in."

"Ah," Kenny nods. "And when would that be?"

"May."

Of course.

Butters seems to be feeling a little better of late, at least, but Kenny knows better than to just assume the best when it comes to this. If Butters doesn't bring it up, though, Kenny doesn't like to either. That just makes it worse, and Kenny does not want that.

"So," Kenny begins instead as they begin walking in the same direction as Wendy, toward the auditorium. "What do your parents think you're doing?"

"I told 'em I got detention," Butters shrugs. "Funnily enough, the only stories they're willing to believe are the ones about me in trouble."

Kenny laughs, mildly impressed by the sudden development in character, but "Doesn't that mean you get grounded more?" Kenny raises an eyebrow, and Butters just gives another noncommittal shrug.

"I figure if they're gonna ground me anyway, which you know they will—" Kenny nods. "Anyway, I figure it's better to get grounded for nothin' than whatever somethin' they try to pin on me."

Kenny whistles, fully impressed now. "Goddamn, baby, you gone bad," he laughs as Butters shakes his head and pushes his face away. Kenny pulls him in close and, after a quick look over his shoulder, kisses him.

When they enter the auditorium, people are already up on stage—some singing parts of their favorite songs, others staring at wonder in the bright lights above them and the scope of the room. Kenny gets a chill of nerves up his spine again and turns to Butters.

"I can't do this."

"Oh, you can too," Butters rolls his eyes affectionately. "You're bein' a wimp."

Kenny pulls a face at that and turns back to the bedlam on stage, which is now being broken up by Wendy with a fierce clap of her hands.

"All right, before we distribute scripts and do a cold read, we're going to do some ice breakers," she chirps.

"Oh, god," Kenny groans. "Just stab me."

"I'm afraid you won't be getting out of it that easily," comes a voice from beside them. It belongs to a stout, middle-aged woman with a streak of gray in her jet hair. "I'm Mrs. Todd, the music teacher. I've been asked to do some voice exercises with you, so we know where you're at."

"Uh," Kenny turns to look at Butters, who just shrugs as Mrs. Todd drags him to the piano by the stage.

"Don't mind us," Mrs. Todd chimes cheerfully to the rest of the club. "Your leading man will be with you shortly." At which point she sits down at the piano and looks at Kenny. "All right, Mr. Zuko, let's see what you can do. Put down your bag, stand up straight, and let's start at C and go down. Ready?"

Kenny feels everyone's eyes burning into the back of his skull, but gives a careful nod anyway. She gives him a series of notes, tells him to sing on a rounded _"ha"_ sound, and he does it. His throat is a little scratchy at first, but after a few rounds it starts working properly. He thinks he's hitting all the notes properly, at least, and _Jesus_ he must have done about a dozen rounds of this before she finally let him stop. He goes lower, until his voice croaks and he sounds more bullfrog than human, and then climbs all the way back up again—voice cracking through a break—until he's singing so high that his throat starts closing up.

Mrs. Todd finally takes off her reading glasses when it's clear that he can't go any higher, and for a moment Kenny thinks he's messed up, that he's about to get tossed out of the play and the part is going to go to someone who can actually sing. Then she says, "Did you know that you have a four octave range?"

"I—what?" he counters, confused. Wendy pauses in her gawking long enough to smack him on the shoulder, and yells at him some more for 'holding out on them'.

"Four octaves is good, then?" Kenny confirms. He gets a resounding "yes!" from about half the people in the room before they drag him into a big circle on the stage, hand him a script, and tell him to start reading.

And it's actually really fun, Kenny discovers. He didn't think it was possible to have this much fun reading something out loud, but he gets _into it_. Plus, like half the play is about cars and pussy. What's not to love about that?

Also, Butters gets to sing a song to Annie about dropping out of beauty school, and the way Butters says so frankly, "No customer would go to you unless she was a hooker" almost makes Kenny piss himself with laughter.

It's thrilling, to be honest. He likes making people laugh, and likes that he's apparently getting all these lines, like, spot on (at least, that's what he thinks everyone's smiles and emphatic nods mean) and it makes Kenny _beam_ with pride.

There's also a part where Stan gets to have his guitar and sing a song called Magic Changes, which Kenny already knows is going to make Kyle cream his panties when he hears it.

Speak of the devil, Kyle is waiting for them outside, all bundled up with a travel mug in his mittened hands.

"Hey, dude," Stan greets him warmly. "You know you could have come inside if you wanted."

"Nah, I just got down here," Kyle shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. "This kid I'm tutoring has a test on Monday and he can barely fucking add."

"That doesn't sound like too much of a problem, unless it's a math test," Butters offers. Kenny tries to hold back his laughter as Kyle takes off one of his mittens with his teeth and throws it at Butters' face.

"You ready to go?" Kyle turns to Stan and asks. "My mom said you can come over for dinner if you want."

"Hey, not to break up your guys' cockfest, but can I get a ride?" Kenny asks. Kyle looks over at Butters warily, but doesn't ask any questions.

"Yeah, sure," he replies. "Butters, do you need a ride?"

"Oh, thanks Kyle," Butters smiles, looking genuinely touched that Kyle would offer him that. "But I got a ride. I'll see you later." He gives Kenny a quick peck on the cheek and heads off upstairs to his locker. Kyle and Stan are looking at Kenny, eyebrows raised, but Kenny just shakes his head, "Don't ask."

The ride back home is about as awkward as it's ever been. Stan and Kyle don't really talk for the first part of it, which makes Kenny a little apprehensive. Things don't generally get to this point between the three of them: someone's always talking about something, or at the very least they have the radio on. Kyle and Stan appear to be in the middle of a very heated telepathic argument, which ends after five whole minutes of silence with Stan turning around and asking, "You and Butters have had sex, right?"

"Stan, for god's sake!" Kyle groans.

"I'm just fucking asking," Stan snaps back and turns an expectant look at Kenny. So Kenny replies, "Yeah, we have."

"See, dude?" Stan gives Kyle a pointed look before turning back to Kenny and asking, "Will you please tell him it's not scary?"

"Dude!"

"Stan, come on," Kenny frowns and puts his feet up on Kyle's seat. "That shit is scary for some people. Have you ever had a dick up your ass, Stan?"

To which Stan replies, with a snarky smile, "Have you?"

Kenny raises an eyebrow and cocks his head at Stan, "I have. And, uh, you've seen Butters' dick, haven't you?"

Stan looks over at Kyle, who gives him this look back that only says, _"You got yourself into this."_

"Then you know that that thing is no fucking cakewalk," Kenny nods. "It hurts, dude, even if you're careful. And if you're so gung-ho about having sex, maybe you should put _your_ ass on the line."

Kyle barks out a laugh, "That. I like that."

"Well fine," Stan scowls back. "Maybe I will."

"Okay, Stan," Kyle laughs.

"Dude, I'd totally do it," Stan insists.

"Sure," Kyle nods.

They're still bickering by the time they drop Kenny at home; Kenny doesn't know if that means they're going to go back to Kyle's house and fuck, or go back to Kyle's house and have a big blow out. Kenny's been so preoccupied with making sure Butters is all right that he hasn't really had time to see what kind of couple they are. Not that it matters all that much; as Kenny turns back to his house, he feels this unparalleled sense of accomplishment.

He feels _good_.

**oooooooo**

Butters is feeling okay too. At least, he is now that he's home and surrounded in a cloud of smoke.

He'd like to say 'it's not what it looks like', but it totally is.

He's sitting in his basement, a towel pressed up under the door, smoking in the little nook between the dryer and the cement wall. Neither of his parents are home and there's already a funky smell coming from the washing machine that masks the stench of the smoke, so he doesn't have to worry about any lingering smell either. He bought his own little stash off of Kenny—off of Kevin, actually. Kenny's letting him use an old pipe, taught him how to light it and everything like that. He had to, since Butters isn't allowed to go back to Kenny's… or spend any extra time outside of the house. The detention thing only buys him so much time.

Butters tucks the pipe away in the hollow of a loose brick in the wall and pushes himself to his feet. Kenny made sure Kevin sold him the good stuff. Medical stuff. Stuff that's meant for people like him. He smoked something once that had him cleaning Kenny's kitchen at one in the morning, and then Kevin told him he had the wrong kind…?

"You need a different strain," Kevin had grunted.

"Why's that?"

"So you don't fucking wake me up while you're scrubbing the shit out of my kitchen, you fucking fruitcake!"

Kenny made Kevin make up the outburst by selling him a nice little stash at half the price he normally would. It's good, because this stuff helps him out a lot more than he thought it would, and what's even better is that the good feelings aren't just from Kenny. He can smoke on his own and still feel perfectly fine.

Which is good, because the more he thinks on it, the more he thinks he shouldn't be relying on anyone to make him feel okay.

Also, whatever Kevin sold him makes him very hungry. So, with as much grace as he can muster, Butters pushes himself up onto his feet and makes his way up the stairs and to the kitchen. He grabs a bag of marshmallows and a jar of nutella out of the pantry and curls up on the couch to eat until he can't eat anymore. That may take a while, but he doesn't quite care.

He will stay on this couch and spoil his dinner and that's that.

He's not spectacularly high, he knows. Kenny has gotten him stoned beyond belief before, and this isn't it. This is just a happy high, which means that he should definitely know how long he's been sitting there before the front door opens and his dad walks in. He must be in one heck of a rush, too, because he whips off his coat and tosses it on the couch, right on top of Butters, before he hurries upstairs.

The coat smells like cheap cologne and cigarettes, and, if Butters tries really hard, he can pick up an unmistakably _musty_ scent that makes him throw both the coat and the marshmallows and the nutella on the ground and scrambles to the edge of the couch.

Quickly, Butters glances up at the ceiling above him (because this will, of course, tell him whether or not his father is going to come right back down again) and without another thought goes to check through the coat.

The only thing he comes up with is a business card, worn out and scribbled on, with dates and times and phone numbers in his dad's untidy scrawl. He reads the header on the front of the card about ten times before the words actually fall into his head in the right order, and even after that it takes him a few more moments before he grasps the full weight of their meaning.

_The White Swallow_.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelps as the card pops out of his hand and onto the floor. A thud follows a moment later, and then a, "Butters?"

"Shit," Butters breathes and rolls rather ungracefully off the couch. He doesn't have time to grab his jacket from upstairs, or his shoes, so he just slips into the bright yellow rain boots he keeps by the door, narrowly reminds himself to grab his keys, and runs out the door.

It takes him forever to get to Kenny's house from his. It has never, ever taken this long and he knows that he's not walking any slower than normal. Everything is dragging on and on, which means he has all the more time to think about _just where exactly his father has been_.

When Kenny answers his door, the first and only thing Butters says is, "The White Swallow."

Only he belatedly realizes he doesn't say this to Kenny, but to Kevin, who turns back to the house with a grimace to shout, "It's for you, fag-tron."

Kenny appears at the door, confused to see Butters standing there.

"Dude, what's up?" he asks. "Are you okay?"

Butters tells Kenny about his dad, about the coat, saying "The White Swallow" a few more times just for good measure, and then has to do it all again because Kenny says he's talking too fast.

"What's The White Swallow?" Kenny asks very calmly.

"This gay bathhouse just outside town," Butters tucks his hands under his arms, and at Kenny's nose scrunch explains, "We caught him goin' there before. Years ago. My mom went nuts and tried to kill me. You don't remember that?"

Kenny just gives him this horrified look and says, "Oh, that old chestnut. No, I can't say that I remember your mom trying to fucking kill you."

Butters brushes it off and keeps going, explaining the rest of the ordeal to Kenny.

"So," Kenny tries to riddle out. "So, your dad has been doing this for _years_."

"Well, we thought he stopped," Butters shrugs and sits down on the front step. "Guess not."

But that doesn't seem to concern Kenny, who hops off the stoop to stand in front of Butters. He looks kind of pissed.

"After all the shit he gives you?" he demands. "After all the shit they _both _give you?"

He sits beside Butters and continues in a low voice, "My family might be homophobic fucks, but at least they're not hypocrites."

There was a time when Butters would have found himself rising to defend his parents. Not anymore. Instead Butters just scowls and props his chin in his hands and stares at a patch of snow on the McCormick's front lawn.

"I hate liars," he mutters, not caring that he sounds like a petulant child. "I mean, it could be an old card. What if he just kept it for nostalgia's sake?"

Even he thinks that sounds fishy as soon as the question mark falls into place on that sentence, and soon he and Kenny are laughing at the thought.

"Man," Butters sighs as he leans back on his hands. "I remember last time I caught him there, he nearly shit himself."

"Aw, sick!" Kenny laughs. "You _caught_ him?"

"I didn't know I was catchin' him doin' anything!" Butters leaps to defend himself, laughing too. "I found him there twice: once I just got a few pictures of him goin' in and the second—"

Just then, a light bulb goes on in his brain.

"Pictures," he says and then turns to Kenny. "I bet I could get pictures of him goin' there again and show 'em to my mom. I reckon that'd take some of the heat offa me for a while."

"Better yet, show 'em to him," Kenny shrugs. "Let him know you know what he's been doing."

"Hey!" Butters exclaims so loud that it makes Kenny jump. "You think if I did that he'd get my mom to lay off me?"

"Mm, blackmail," Kenny hums wistfully. "Sexy."

Butters doesn't want to think about it as blackmail; _blackmail_ sounds so dirty. Really he's just using the situation to his best advantage to get something that he should rightfully have anyway.

Never mind, that sounds a little diabolical too.

"You wanna come with me?" Butters asks then. "That way if my dad doesn't show up, we can always go in and give some old perverts in there a show."

Kenny belly laughs at that, and even though he doesn't hug Butters or kiss him, Butters can tell that he wants to. In lieu of that, Kenny offers Butters a ride back home so he doesn't have to walk back. Butters feels heavy on the ride back, even though his mind is racing with all sorts of excitement. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he can see the light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel.

"Can we run away when all this is over?" Butters asks as Kenny pulls over at the end of Butters' street.

"Sure," Kenny nods, without even thinking about it. "Where do you want to go?"

"Hm," Butters thinks for a few moments. "Paris?"

"Too gay."

"Siberia?"

"Not gay enough."

Butters giggles and unbuckles his seatbelt, climbing across the seat to kiss Kenny's face. "I'll go wherever you wanna go with me," he says.

"Can we just make out for a few minutes and go from there?" Kenny offers.

"Sold, to the man in the orange parka with the impeccable ass," Butters closes his lips over Kenny's and he somehow ends up on his back with Kenny slotted neatly on top of him. They stop before it gets too far, though, and Butters is left to walk starry-eyed and flushed back home. He sneaks in through the basement window and wonders if he can just pass off that he's been in here the whole time.

He ends up taking a nap on the old futon down in the corner—it's a lumpy old thing that they've never had the heart to get rid of, but Butters likes it. When he wakes up he'll mastermind his plan, but until then he needs to fall asleep basking in the phantom feeling of Kenny's hands and lips on his body.

He needs to hold onto the happy things.

**oooooo**

"Newly renovated, it says," Kenny remarks as he reads over a brochure he nicked from The White Swallow's front room. "And with enough money left over to print full-color brochures. Classy bastards…"

Butters snorts from his place behind the bushes outside of The White Swallow. Thankfully, drama club rehearsals aren't at the every-day stage yet, so after school Kenny and Butters hang around Butters' dad's office and wait for him to leave. He leads them right to where they are now, and while Butters got a few good pictures of him going into the building (which does look as though it's been renovated), he sent Kenny in to do the actual grunt work of catching his dad in the act.

"They check IDs now, I guess," Kenny had said when he'd come out three minutes later, "But I got a nice brochure from them." And now here they are.

And there they are again the next day, and the day after that.

Butters wants to be discouraged, but he can't find it in himself to be so. He has something to focus on that isn't school, and that seems to be doing him a world of good. It's even getting him through school a bit easier, which he did not expect anything could do.

It doesn't even get him down when Eric tries to break him back down.

"Nice to see that the crazy apple hasn't fallen far from the crazy tree."

"Fuck off, Eric," is Butters' hasty reply. This not only gets Eric to shut up, but also ends with Kenny pulling him into an empty supply closet for a hasty romp.

He loves when Kenny gives him head, too. The less afraid Kenny gets of him, the more incredible it is.

"Do I get a blowjob every time I stand up for myself?" Butters huffs as he props himself up wobbly-legged against the door. Kenny's just swallowed a mouthful of his spunk and is doing that thing where he looks up at Butters from under his bangs and it's an absolutely lovely sight.

"Pretty bomb incentive, right?" Kenny's lips quirk into a smile as he rolls to his feet.

"I'll say," Butters nods, "Though I think that just means I'll end up getting really horny when I tell people to fuck off."

"Good," Kenny runs his fingers through Butters' hair, "We'll have something else in common, then."

Butters grins and rests their foreheads together. He's starting to get those old feelings back—the good ones. Those feelings that make Butters chest swell when Kenny looks at him, the ones that leave him breathless the moment Kenny's skin touches his. It's almost like they're nothing more than flashes from a camera, brief illuminations in the otherwise thick darkness.

Except there's that little light there now. It hasn't gone away, and pinpoint though it may be, that's enough for the time being.

"Comin' to stake out with me later?" Butters yawns.

"Ugh," Kenny groans and buries his face in Butters' neck. "Wendy said there's rehearsal."

"Oh, right," Butters recalls. "You gotta start learning your songs."

"How come you don't have to go?" Kenny all but pouts. "You have a song."

"Because I'm perfect?" Butters offers, which earns him a poke to the ribs and a stuck out tongue. "Hey!" Butters giggles. "I don't know… you guys are leads. I just got one song I sing with a bunch of freshmen. That's one day of practice, tops."

Kenny grins back at him and pulls him forward into a kiss.

"You gonna be fine storming the castle all on your own?" he asks.

Butters nods, "I'll be fine." He means it too. "Maybe I'll get something done without you distracting me." He sticks out his tongue then, and laughs when Kenny nips at his chin in retaliation.

They exit the closet and go to their respective classes, and when the school day is over Butters asks Stan if he'll drop him off near The White Swallow, though not close enough for Stan to become suspicious. Butters just makes up a story about a new therapist and Stan buys it.

His dad gets to the spa around the same time that he does every day. Butters doesn't know how long it's been going on, but it's long enough for him to established a routine.

Gross.

The thing about this is that he's at a stand-still. Without being able to go in and get the kinds of pictures he wants, he doesn't have the kind of leverage he needs to be able to get what he wants. Even as he comes out from his place behind the bushes to survey the building, he starts thinking about what he would ask for if he got the pictures he wanted.

Something about getting good and proper help, he thinks. That's what's most important to him right now, and if getting naked pictures of his dad in a gay spa is the way he's going to get that done, then so be it.

Funnily enough, the thought of catching his dad getting butt-fucked into oblivion doesn't gross him out nearly as much as it probably should. Maybe it's because he's seen it before, maybe it's because he just gives so few fucks about anything anymore that he's getting some sort of super powers from it or something. Either way, when he finds a door at the back of the building he almost jumps in the air for joy.

What's even more exciting, it's open.

He knows he's not exactly incognito, but this isn't exactly the class of place where that kind of thing matters.

To be fair, though, it is a lot nicer than (what Butters has chosen to remember of) the last time he was here. It's freshly painted, his feet aren't sticking to the floor, and he feels a little less like he's going to contract a venereal disease just from breathing the air now.

Also, he's getting a little more attention this time around—the not so savory kind—and it makes Butters feel just plain sleazy.

"Get those skinny jeans off, let's see what you're hiding under there."

"I bet you make all sorts of pretty noises, don't you?"

"Yeah, not for you!" Butters snaps back, but keeps his voice low after that. He doesn't want is dad to hear him.

After the first few rooms he checks (and the next half-dozen offers for various sexual acts that make Butters a little nauseous), Butters starts wondering if he's ever going to find his dad. He's about to give up entirely when he sees a trio of middle-aged men through a crack in the door, but then he realizes.

Holy shit.

That's his dad sandwiched between those two big, beefy fellas.

Ew.

Okay, he is definitely about as horrified as he should be. He fights his natural inclination to drop his stuff and run, and instead bites the bullet and holds his camera up to the crack in the door. He snaps a few pictures—it takes a while, but he finally gets some good ones where you can clearly make out his dad's face and counts it a success. He's also probably a little more scarred than when he came in, but whatever. The damage isn't any worse than he's used to.

He even takes a video for good measure.

When he turns around to tuck his camera back into his bag, there's a portly, hairy man with a large mustache and even larger belly staring at him rather lecherously.

"What's with you?" he grunts. "You like to watch? Got a big group going in room ten."

"No, thank you!" Butters insists with a frown and pushes past the man to go back the way he came. He doesn't like the leering, or the catcalls he gets as he walks by open rooms. Slutty though he may be, Butters gets creeped out by places and people like this. He doesn't know the story behind why every person is here, but he knows his dad's and that makes him uncomfortable: late-in-life queer, can't leave his family because he can't cop to who he is, has to seek out anonymous sex with sleazy men… for a moment, Butters almost feels bad for him.

Almost.

The whole 'attempt to heterosexualize him' thing really does work against whatever sympathies Butters might feel. Pray the gay away camp, this whole ordeal over the last couple of months… Butters knows who he is. He shouldn't be punished just because his dad doesn't.

And he most certainly shouldn't be punished because his mom is always two seconds away from going insane.

Butters gets out of the spa relatively unscathed, save for a used condom stuck to his boot and a phone number sticking out of his jacket pocket.

Ew, when the hell did that happen?

He rushes home from there and wastes no time in getting up to his room and logging on to his computer. After a few minutes of ransacking his drawers, he finds his camera cord and downloads all the pictures. Several copies are hidden all over his computer after that, and even after _that _Butters prints out two sets of copies. He'll give one to Kenny—that's better than sending the digital copies to the one computer that all five McCormicks share.

As if on cue, Butters gets a text from Kenny.

_'howd it go'_

_'Dad's a screamer…'_ Butters replies back, which earns him the almost immediate response, _'that's FUKED UP dde'_

_'I'll give you the low down tomorrow'_

_'pls dont'_

Butters grins and tucks the hard copies of the pictures away in one of the drawers under his bed. A sense of accomplishment settles over him, and Butters decides that hard work and emotional scarring like this deserves a little snack. He ducks out of his room and down into the kitchen for a Dr. Pepper and some potato chips, but something catches his eye by the mail slot in the door before he can get too far.

It's an envelope—a big, official looking one.

Apart from the giant footprint across stamped across it, there's also an unmistakable university-looking insignia up in the corner. Shakily, Butters grabs it off the floor and tears it open without ceremony.

He reads over the first lines a few times before he lets himself break out in a smile.

Boulder accepted him.

Sure, it's no NYU, but he's been _accepted. _

To a _college_.

All of a very sudden, that little pinpoint of light at the end of the tunnel expands, just the teeniest bit.

It may not be enough to illuminate everything, but it's definitely enough for Butters to project himself out of this town, away from his parents, and into another life, one that could easily be his. He sees himself in a dorm, surrounded by interesting people who do interesting things, people who don't judge him at face value, people he hasn't known since before he could walk.

People who would actually have to get to know him, and who would love him and accept him for the person he is.

For the first time in a long time, Butters can see his life changing.

He thinks he knows what he can ask his dad for now.

* * *

**Hi everyone! Things have been hectic over here in my neck of the woods-I had a birthday, I'm now employed, and I am house-hopping. Crazy stuff. A couple more installments to go as we wrap things up in this story. Thank you so much as always for sticking with it, especially since updates have been so sparse lately. I adore all of you.**

**Chapter title is from _Rose's Turn_ from _Gypsy_.**


	16. It Means Until We Meet Again

**Chapter 16: It Means "Until We Meet Again"**

"Look," Butters pulls a letter out of the bright purple folder he keeps in his English notebook. It's a stiff piece of paper, very official-looking, and Kenny's heart leaps into his throat as his eyes skim over the words.

It's from Boulder.

"Uh," Kenny supplies with a smile as he hands the letter back. "You got in."

"I know," Butters nods, positively giddy, and pulls Kenny into a hug so tight that he thinks he might pop. It's the happiest Kenny has seen Butters in a very, very long time, and for a moment it's easy to forget everything that's happened over the last few months.

It's easy to forget everything, actually, and give Butters a big kiss.

Cartman knocks into them as he passes, which prompts Kenny to pull away and toss out a hearty "fuck you" as he flourishes his middle finger. Butters rolls his eyes and shoves Kenny's hand down to his side, offering a toothy grin as one of the teachers walks by.

"You free after rehearsal today?" he then asks as he watches to make sure the teacher is out of sight.

"I'm free every day after rehearsal," Kenny shrugs. Butters pulls another folder out of his locker, a black one, and hands it to Kenny. He offers no explanation, so Kenny has to open it up and see for himself just what's inside.

A stack of gritty-looking photos of Stephen Stotch that he definitely did _not _need to see.

"Aw, dude," Kenny grimaces and shoves them back at Butters. "Not cool. If you're going to intentionally scar me for life, at least warn me."

Butters shoves the folder back into the locker, looking at Kenny in a way that makes him feel like he shouldn't be reacting that way if Butters isn't.

"You're very zen about this, dude," Kenny frowns and adjusts his bag on his shoulder. "If I saw my dad getting railed like that…" he finishes with a whistle.

"Well, I would probably have a different reaction if I saw your dad doin' that too," Butters shrugs and shuts his locker. "I don't know," he continues as they walk toward the auditorium. "It's weird to think, but I almost feel like I don't care about anything anymore, so I don't care about this?"

"You don't care about anything?" Kenny asks, and Butters pauses.

They walk in silence for a few moments as Butters thinks, and then he replies, "All right, I care about some stuff. Like, you and goin' to school and stuff."

The sentiment makes Kenny's chest all fuzzy and warm.

"And hey," Butters snaps his fingers pointedly, "So long as I'm at it, I may as well ask for good therapy. After all, seein' pictures of your dad getting nailed buy another fella can be really scarring for such an impressionable young mind."

Kenny barks out a laugh and pulls Butters into a one-armed hug. It's good to see him like this. Kenny doesn't think he's back to his old self or anything; actually, he thinks Butters is on his way to being better than before.

Old Butters would have stayed in correctional therapy without a question of his parents' judgment.

"Kenny!"

Kenny and Butters turn to see Ms. Epstein running toward them from the front office. She has a long, hand-knit scarf around her neck and a matching hat on her head.

"I'm glad I caught you," she smiles, and looks at Butters. "Hello, Leopold. Are you boys off to drama rehearsal?"

"Yeah, actually," Kenny nods.

"I'm actually gonna keep headin' over," Butters smiles. "I'll see you there." He gives Ms. Epstein a wave and walks off.

Kenny watches him walk for a few moments before turning back to Ms. Epstein and asking, "Is everything okay? Shit, I didn't forget to put my name on my essay again did I?"

"No, nothing like that," she shakes her head with a laugh and reaches into her bag. She pulls out a handful of envelopes and hands them to him. "I wanted to give you these."

"These," Kenny nods and fans them out in front of himself. "What are these?"

"Well, I didn't think you were applying to schools this year," she crosses her arms over her chest. "But in case you _did _decide to do it next year, I didn't want you to be stuck without at least one letter of recommendation."

"So you gave me five?" he asks, a little dumbstruck.

"Well, it's five copies of one letter," she explains. "You're a talented kid, Kenny, and you're a good kid to boot. There aren't that many of you out there. If I can help you do anything, I want you to let me know. I know school isn't over for a few months, but… you deserve good things to happen to you. So, we've got some time to make it happen."

The letters feel hot against Kenny's skin.

No one has ever thought he was smart enough to go to college before, even if it's just art school.

"Thank you," he nods. And then she pulls him into a hug and she smells like incense and lentil soup, and it's oddly comforting. He hugs her back, and then gives her a wave when she turns back to the office.

Kenny doesn't go to the auditorium right away. Instead he goes out behind the school, lights up a cigarette, and tears open one of the letters. He unfolds the crisp white paper and reads,

_"To Whom it May Concern,_

_I have had the undeniable pleasure of working with Kenneth McCormick for only a few months, and already I have discerned that he is not only a talented artist, but a fiercely determined worker. He entered my class as a student who had never been enrolled in such a rigorous course, and where many would have paled and given up in the face of such a challenge, Kenneth pushed himself and is now one of my best students. _

_As an artist, he has a unique grasp of composition and style that would flourish under more detailed instruction. More than just a hobby, it is clear to me that Kenneth's art is an essential medium of expression that never ceases to amaze. I know that he would benefit from and be a wonderful addition to your institution. _

_Sincerely,_

_Adelaide Epstein"_

Kenny doesn't realize he's crying until a tear rolls off his cheek and splats onto the letter. He's overwhelmed by the deep, thick swell in his chest, and for once in his life he extinguishes a cigarette before it's completely smoked down.

He thinks this is what it must be like to be sat on by an elephant.

"What's that," comes the familiar voice of Eric Cartman. "Butters leave you a break up note in your locker or something?"

"Fuck off," Kenny replies thickly and swipes the tears off his cheeks.

"Dude, fucking gross," Cartman scowls as he lights a cigarette. "Cover your vagina when you're in public, Kenny, Jesus."

"Will you fuck the fucking fuck off!" Kenny snaps. He feels too good to want this to end just yet.

"What are you gonna do when he leaves?" Cartman asks, and for a split second Kenny thinks that he might be trying to have an actual conversation with him. Then, of course, he spoils it by saying, "I guess you could always kill yourself. Though, there's no guarantee he wouldn't beat you to it."

Kenny is on his feet in a split second, letter on the floor and Cartman backed up against the wall.

"Tell me again," he says, voice deadly low, "And see if you can enunciate a little more this time, because I think I misheard you: _what's that you said_?"

It doesn't enter into Kenny's mind that Cartman might actually be scared by him. He's a sociopathic piece of shit, and not that Kenny ever thought that that would change, it's still shitty to be reminded of it so often.

"Now, Kenny," Cartman feigns sympathy and puts a meaty hand on his shoulder. "It's hard when a significant other leaves us. But the important thing to remember in times of sadness is that you go down the road, not across the way."

Kenny doesn't remember much after that—he gets that all too familiar feeling of homicidal Irish rage in his gut and before he knows it, he and Cartman are scrapping on the floor.

And, as expected, Kenny gets pinned pretty easily, face pressed against the ice cold concrete and nose leaking blood all over the place. He can't hear much over the rush in his ears, only knows that someone's come over to break it up.

It takes three fully grown teachers to pull Cartman up off of Kenny, while Kenny is left to roll to his feet on his own.

"That's cool," he grunts and brushes himself off. He looks up then to see the dean standing there, arms folded, beside Cartman.

"Oh, shit," he mutters, and the dean nods.

"You've got that right," he nods and beckons Kenny forth with a finger.

"What the fuck, how come he doesn't have to come?" Kenny jabs an accusatory thumb at Cartman.

"Because I'll deal with him later, Kenny, now come on" the dean snaps. Kenny draws back not only at the severity of tone, but also at how easily he finds himself following the dean back to his office. The moment they're behind closed doors, the dean braces his hands on his desk and hangs his head.

"And after I just had Ms. Epstein in here singing your praises?" the dean finally asks and looks up. "Kenny, you were five months away from getting out of here. Five fucking months! I swear, I thought you summoned the goddamned devil to keep your bullshit in check, I was that impressed. Not one peep out of you since September, and now this?"

Kenny sits perfectly still in his chair, aware of the blood trickling from his nose that now stains the collar of his shirt. The dean softens a bit and offers him the box of tissues.

"The nurse is already gone for the day," he says and sits on his desk. "I don't know why you insist on picking fights with people who are twice your size."

Kenny takes a wad of tissues and stuffs one up his nose to staunch the flow.

"Uh, not that I don't appreciate it, but… why aren't you, like," Kenny sniffs, "screaming."

The dean runs a hand over his face and tosses his box of tissues back on his desk. "Because I have to expel you now and I'm really, really bummed about it, dude."

Kenny's blood runs cold. The dean does actually look remorseful, but that's—

"You've gotta be fucking shitting me," he says. "No way, I've been doing great! I'm supposed to be in _Grease_, dude!"

"I know that, Kenny," the dean nods. "But I gave you a limit and part of my job is making sure that your actions have consequences."

"Dude, that's bullshit!" Kenny snaps and stands, fuming. "I was doing just fucking fine; that piece of shit provoked me!"

"Believe me, I know," the dean folds his arms. "And he'll face his own punishment separately, but Kenny I did warn you that this would happen. My hands are tied."

Kenny balks, unable to actually wrap his lips around any words as the dean sits behind his desk and picks up the phone. "Are your parents home?"

"Fuck that," Kenny shakes his head as the dean looks up his phone number in the computer. "I'll tell them, just—don't call them in here, please."

"Kenny, my hands are tied," the dean shakes his head and presses the number into the phone. "And if you run I'm gonna have to get Officer Hardy in here and _keep _you here."

Kenny's mouth opens and closes a few times before he eventually concedes and flops back down into his chair. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and while the dean explains to an undoubtedly inebriated Stuart McCormick why he's calling, he pulls it out and answers.

"Kenny, where are you?" comes Butters' slightly panicked voice. "We're out lookin' for you, but no one can find you. Are you all right?"

"I've been better," Kenny mutters and sinks low into his seat. "I'm in the dean's office. Um… I'm not coming to rehearsal."

He hears nothing but silence on the end before he gets an accusatory, "Kenny, what did you do?"

"Look, I'll tell you later," Kenny explains quickly as the dean gives him a hardened stare. "I'm kind of fucked up my ass here."

"Oh, for the love of God—" he hears Butters start in, but Kenny quickly snaps his phone shut and attempts to look innocent.

"Your dad is on his way," the dean takes off his glasses and rubs at his eyes. "Look, I'm not going to rail on you in front of him, all right? You're seventeen, your parents have to be involved."

To Kenny's great surprise, he no longer feels angry. Instead, there's this noxious amount of guilt seeping into his core. He's not going to get to be in the play, he's not going to graduate, but what's even worse is that there were people actually pulling for him to turn it around and he fucked up.

Worst of all, he let down Butters. He's supposed to be the strong one… right? At one point, he thought that Butters was the strong one who was there to catch Kenny when he fell, but then Butters ended up falling to pieces.

"Look," the dean begins behind steepled fingers, head bowed deep in thought. "You can still get your GED, you can still pursue other things. But the truth of the matter is that if I went back on my word and kept you in school, I'd still have to pull you out of all of your extra curriculars and keep you under close watch… I'm not your babysitter Kenny—no one is, and I know you know that. But with your disciplinary record, that would be protocol, and quite frankly I think that would be insulting to you. To the both of us."

Kenny can't help himself. He doubles over to rest his forehead on his knees and lets a few tears soak into the denim on his legs.

Because there's nothing left for him to do. If he's not at least going to graduate high school, and he doesn't have a job anymore, what the fuck hope is there for him? He doesn't have any skills or anything he likes to do that would make him any money. Even to make money with art you need to have at least some formal training.

All he has left is Butters, and he'll be gone by September.

He looks back up at the dean, who tries to pretend that he doesn't feel bad or sympathetic, and prepares himself for what he's about to do.

"I'm sorry," he supplies simply and without another thought he gets up and takes off down the hall as fast as he can. With nothing left to lose, he may as well go out in a blaze of glory, right?

He carefully evades the patches of snow and ice and gets to the truck. He starts her up and tears off of the property.

He doesn't have any of his money, and Kevin would actually kill him if he took off with the truck, but in spite of all of that, Kenny suddenly realizes that the rest of the world is open to him.

Because unlike most people who have nothing left to lose, he can't lose his life. For whatever reason, that comforts him immensely. No longer does he have people to disappoint, or himself to disappoint for that matter. Finally rid of the last yoke of expectations, he feels like, for the first time, he can actually start living his life.

When he gets home, both Kevin and Karen are on the couch—Kevin watching Swamp People and Karen attempting to fishtail braid her own hair. Both look at him with high arched eyebrows and big eyes, like they've just seen a ghost. Karen gets over it quickly, though, and immediately springs up to give him a hug.

"Dad just went to the school because your bitch-ass was in trouble," Kevin scowls from his place on the couch. "'the fuck did you do?"

"I got in a fight," Kenny replies, and pulls the bloody wad of tissue out of his nose. "And they kicked me out. I figure I've got a good half an hour before he's back, so I'm leaving."

"What?" Karen nearly shouts, pushing him away almost violently. "Like hell you are, fucker!"

"Where the fuck would you even go?" Kevin asks. "And you're not taking the truck, so take that into motherfucking account, dick."

"I don't know," Kenny shrugs, a smile on his face. "I could go anywhere I want. Like, _anywhere_. So I think I'm going to."

Karen and Kevin both stare at him blankly, and so Kenny takes the opportunity to run upstairs and start stuffing his backpack with essentials. Or, as essential as he can guess, considering that he doesn't know where the hell he's going.

"What'll you do?" Karen asks as she appears in the doorway.

"I don't know," Kenny shrugs. "But anything is better than rotting here."

He looks up at her and feels his gut twist in a sickening realization. He can't fucking believe that he forgot about Karen. She's his best friend, for god's sake, and he just _forgot_ about her.

"Listen," he stands and pulls her into a hug. "If I don't do this now, I never will. I'll end up getting lashed to some shitty job here and I'll be stuck."

Karen pulls back from him and folds her arms over her skinny chest. She gives him a hard look up and down and bites her lip, thinking.

"Then you should go," she finally concludes, and smiles at him. "You should, and you should send me a postcard from everywhere you go. Because if you can get out of here, then… I don't know, then I can too. And so can Kevin."

Kenny scoffs at that. Kevin wouldn't leave this place if there was a gold paved road leading out of it.

"Hey, would you give me a ride to Stark's Pond?" he asks.

Karen cocks her brow and counters, "Not to the airport?"

"No, I have to—I've gotta do something first."

Karen shrugs and goes to put on her shoes. Meanwhile, Kenny whips out his phone and texts Butters to meet him at Stark's Pond ASAP.

_'In the interest of saving me a lot of anxiety can you tell me what's wrong?'_

_'2much 4 a message. Everything is ok tho, jus meet me please?'_

_'Alright, be there soon.'_

Kenny finishes packing his bag, grabs the extra wad of cash out from under his mattress, and meets Karen downstairs where she waits with Kevin.

"So, you know she's not old enough to drive you, right?" Kevin asks, fingering the key ring in his hands. Kenny falters momentarily and then folds his arms over his chest.

"I didn't figure you'd want to drive me to meet Butters," he raises an eyebrow. Kevin nods and looks down at his keys.

"You're right, I don't."

He makes no move to abandon the keys, though, and that's enough for Kenny. That may as well have been a flat-out "I love you", for god's sake. So, the three of them pile into the truck—Karen in the middle and Kenny anxiously jiggling in the passenger's seat—and drive to Stark's Pond.

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, parked on the abandoned street and waiting for any sign of Butters.

"He's not coming," Kevin shakes his head. "May as well just drive you to the airport now."

"Shut the fuck up, Kevin," Karen scowls and gives him a shove. "Our brother is in love and it's beautiful."

"The fuck it is," Kevin scoffs. "Fuckin' dirty is what it is."

"Blow it out your ass," Kenny snaps. "Both of you."

Uncomfortable silence falls among them again and Kenny silently wills Butters there quicker. It proves useless though, and Kenny realizes he's just going to have to wait.

Butters drives like a fucking little old lady.

And then Kevin says something that hits him like a train to the chest. "What are you going to do about mom?"

Kenny falls back against his seat so hard that his head thunks against the glass. "Fuck," is all he can think to say as both Karen and Kevin look at him expectantly. He mulls it over for a moment before he concludes, "If I see her, I'll just talk myself out of it and I won't go."

He screws his eyes shut and scrunches up his face, brain working hard. He doesn't get anything out before he sees Butters pull up.

His heart skips a beat.

"Okay, um" he swallows and, rather than try to find the right words, throws his arms around Karen's skinny frame. She resituates and hugs him back so tight that he thinks she might actually break him in half.

"I love you," she pulls back and sniffles. "Remember, post cards."

Kenny smiles and nods. Kevin remains silent through this, though he does look a little like he's trying to smile when Kenny looks at him. Kenny gulps, gives a final nod, and hops out of the car. Butters stands beside his car, eyebrows knit up high on his forehead as Kenny approaches him and pulls him into a kiss.

They jump apart when Kevin lays on the horn as he tears away from the park, middle finger stuck out of the driver's side window until they turn the corner.

"Okay, will you just tell me what the hell is going on before I go crazy?" Butters breathes and starts touching Kenny's face, like he's making sure he's all there. "You're scarin' the crap outta me."

"I'm fine," Kenny gives him a reassuring smile, only to falter a second later. "Well, okay, not _fine. _I just got kicked out of school."

"What!" Butters yelps, and looks about to start in on what promises to be a most tedious reading of the riot act before Kenny cuts him off.

"I'm fine, though," he insists. "Dude, it's weird but I—I feel like I'm on top of the fucking world right now."

Butters returns with a set of wild eyes and eyebrows screwed up high on his forehead, paired with a simple "Did you have a stroke?"

Kenny lets out a nervous laugh and rests their foreheads together. He isn't sure how to say what he wants to say, so he kisses Butters again, soft and reassuring. Butters hangs on to him tight, and Kenny's heart skips another beat.

"I'm leaving," he finds himself saying when they pull apart, just like that. Butters looks at him funny again.

"Leaving?" he cocks his head, panting softly. Kenny swallows and strokes his fingers through Butters' hair.

God, he really is gorgeous.

"I can't stay here anymore," Kenny explains. "Baby, I gotta leave."

Butters doesn't respond, just stares at Kenny with those big watery eyes and that soft face, and lets Kenny continue.

"If I don't leave, I'm gonna be stuck here forever," he admits, and Butters starts shaking his head.

"No," he gulps, "Kenny, no. Don't—don't leave me here by myself."

Kenny nestles his face in Butters' neck and hugs him close. He smells like soap and clean laundry, the same way he always smells. Kenny could live right here in Butters' arms forever, but when he pulls back, he knows that he can't. Not right now anyway.

So, he offers a soft smile and asks, "Take me to the airport?"

Butters takes a step away from him, searching Kenny's face for something. Kenny thinks he may have found it, because a second later his face gets all screwed up and he starts to cry. He doesn't let Kenny hug him, though, just mops up his tears with his sleeves and says, "Get in the car, asshole."

And he does. Butters gets behind the wheel, starts the car, and takes off for the road out of town without saying another word. For a while, they sit in absolute silence, neither of them daring to turn on the radio or even breathe too hard.

Butters looks more grown-up here than Kenny thinks he's ever seen him.

"Where're you gonna go?" Butters finally asks, and Kenny admits, "I don't know. Wherever I can afford, I guess."

And then a thought strikes him, "You can come with me, if you want."

Butters lets out a loud laugh and gives Kenny that look again.

"You're insane," he shakes his head. "Kenny, I can't go with you. I'm… I'm goin' to college in the fall. Granted, I can't really say where yet, but I gotta finish school."

Kenny lets out a breath and sinks in his seat.

Silence falls between them again. Who can say why for Butters, but for Kenny there's a tumultuous storm of feelings tearing through him and about a million things he could say, none of which feel right for the time being.

So, he reaches over and fluffs up Butters' hair.

"I love you," he says through a smile and shifts so he's facing Butters. "And, in a weird way? I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't for you."

"I drove you out of the state," Butters snarks. "Great."

"Dude, not even," Kenny jabs him in the ribs ("Not while I'm driving, Kenny!") and insists, "I've wanted to get out of here forever, but I spent so much time being afraid of myself that I couldn't ever imagine feeling good again. You make me want to be better, to go out and live my life and just… fucking do something. I can't do that here, you know that."

Butters shifts in his seat, but finally nods and concedes, "I know."

And Kenny almost starts talking again, but Butters cuts him off. "But you help me too, Kenny," he admits in this broken watery voice that makes Kenny's throat close up. "And I still need you. I can't—I can't do all this on my own. Heck, I still gotta get help with everything, and start seein' a real doctor, and get all my shit together, and even if you being here doesn't make everything better, it still makes it easier, and I can't—" his voice cracks and he has to pull over. He rests his forehead on the steering wheel and starts to cry. Like, actually cry, complete with whimpering and sobbing and shaking. Kenny undoes his seat belt and pulls him into a hug. He feels hot, like he has a fever even though he's not sick.

"You're okay," Kenny hums and kisses him on the cheek, in his hair, on the very top of his head. He whispers little reassuring things over and over, telling Butters he loves him and that he's okay and amazing and that everything is going to be all right until Butters has calmed down enough to start breathing evenly again.

It does make him insurmountably sad that this is the last time he'll hold Butters for a while, but he keeps his tears at bay.

"I can't stay," he just says, and Butters nods again. "I know."

He sniffles and pulls back, wiping at his eyes. "Kenny, I don't—I don't want you to stay here 'cause of me," Butters says. "If you need to do this, then I want you to. I'm just—" he hiccups. "I'm just real sad about it, I guess."

"I know," Kenny nods, "I am too. But you've got this, dude. You really do."

Butters gives a little laugh and hiccups again, and Kenny smiles back. "What if I stay here and get a job, and then you don't wanna leave because I'm here?"

"Kenny, you don't have to convince me," Butters laughs and wipes at his eyes. "I really want you to go and… _spread your wings_, or whatever you're gonna do."

"You've gotta do it too, though," Kenny insists. "You gotta go and make sure you get to go to the school you wanna go to, and when you do, you have to let me know where you're going. And I can meet you there."

Butters gets this happy smile on his face as he sinks into the thought. "You could, couldn't you?"

Kenny grins and nods, bringing him into a kiss. "You and me, we're gonna get out of here," he murmurs against Butters' lips. "And we're gonna have sex on your homophobic roommate's desk the second we see each other again."

Butters laughs, on the edge of hysterics again. "What if my roommate isn't homophobic?" he asks.

"Still gonna have sex on his desk," Kenny shrugs. "That should be the first thing you tell him, just so he knows what's coming."

They descend into uncontrollable fits of laughter, leaning on each other for support. By the time they finally calm down, Kenny feels a lot better, and so does Butters from the looks of it. They strap themselves back in and take off down the road again. It's a lot easier now, both of them going on and joking back and forth all the way to Denver.

Being with Butters is easy, and Kenny gets kind of sad knowing that it won't be like this for a while.

When they get to the airport, Butters gets out of the car like he's going to go inside with him. Kenny stops him with a kiss that catches Butters off guard and gets Kenny to stop breathing. This is the last time he's going to kiss this boy for a while. Suddenly there's a little more urgency under his skin.

"You'd better get going," Kenny sighs as he pulls back. "Your parents'll be livid by the time you get back."

"Kenny, I don't care," Butters shakes his head, and then kisses Kenny again. They're all but making out on the hood of the car before Kenny finally pulls away.

"I love you, baby," he grins, and Butters gives him a bittersweet smile back.

"I love you too," he returns and looks down at his fingers. "Just—let me know when you get where you're goin' huh?"

"Of course," Kenny nods. "And, uh… do me a favor and check in on my mom and Karen once in a while?"

Butters smiles and nods back, "Yeah, I will."

And then Kenny turns away and takes the first steps into his future, alone but somehow lighter than ever.

**oooooo**

It's dark when Butters gets back to South Park. There's this mix of remorse and hope in his chest that he didn't think would be possible to feel, but there it is.

The only light on when he gets home comes from the living room, which means that his parents are undoubtedly waiting up for him. He knew this would happen, sure, but he can't find it in himself to care. He spent half the drive home crying his eyes out, and the other half singing along to every Carpenters CD his mom keeps in this godforsaken car just to cheer himself up.

That did not work as well as he wanted.

He sits in the driveway for a few minutes, mopping up any stray tears that come out of his eyes and trying to get a hold of himself. When he finally feels like he can operate at a normal human level, he takes a deep breath and gets out of the car.

Upon entering the house, he sees about what he expected: his father sitting there in his cardigan, smoking his pipe and looking furious.

"Just where the hell have you been?" he bellows and stands. "Your mother had to take my car to her book club."

"Oh no," Butters deadpans before he can stop himself and goes to the fridge to find something to eat.

"Don't you use that tone with me, young man, I want answers!"

"For your information," Butters snaps back and slams the fridge door. "I just found out that the guy I love got kicked out of school about two minutes before he told me he's leaving South Park. I had to drive him to the airport, sorry I wasn't home sooner."

His dad looks for a moment like he might be sympathetic, but the moment passes and his gaze hardens.

"Well, good," he concludes. "Maybe now you'll make a little progress with your recovery."

"What recovery?" Butters ponders, folding his arms in curiosity. "If you're referring to my mental state, I-I hate to disappoint you but I don't think this is gonna help too much; if you're referring to my body healin' my fucked up arms, that didn't have much to do with Kenny anyway; if you're talking about my bein' a big ol' queer, you're shit outta luck there too."

Butters feels this invigorating rush as his dad balks at him, and even though his heart slams hard against his ribs, he feels power bubbling deep inside him.

"How—Butters, you are in a world of trouble, is that all you have to say for yourself?"

Butters shrugs, "Why not?"

That sets Stephen off like a wildfire on a hot windy day. "Young man, you have no idea just what you're doing to yourself when you refuse to take the help your mother and I arranged for you to have. You're dooming yourself to a life of ostracism, just for something that eventually won't mean anything to you."

Butters raises his eyebrows. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

His dad pauses and steeples his fingers, trying to figure out how best to phrase what's rattling around in his head. "Son, everyone goes through phases like this, and I will not allow you to throw your life away just because of some unchecked adolescent idiocy! Now, we've tried to be reasonable with you, but if you're going to keep resisting, I'm afraid we'll have no choice but to send you to a place that _can _help you."

That hits Butters hard, and all of a sudden he's off. "I don't think so, there dad," he lays in, coming back into the living room. "'cause if you send me to some place that's gonna help me 'get rid of my gay', what are they gonna do when I say that all I know is what I've seen my dad do at The White Swallow spa?"

Stephen's eyes get wide and Butters breaks out into a complacent grin.

"Aw, come on dad, you didn't think I forgot about that, did you?" he taunts.

"Now, that's not the same," Stephen falters. "That's just your dad blowing off steam."

"You sure you wanna use that phrasing?" Butters asks, smile unwavering.

"It's just something I do sometimes," Stephen explains, choosing to ignore Butters' comment. "That's all things like this should be. It's all right to have these urges, but to build a life on them is just… foolish. It'll never make you happy. Your mom, you, our life together—that's what makes me happy."

"No," Butters snaps back. "If you're happy, you shouldn't wanna sneak around and have some double life. And you know what? If that's what makes you happy, fine, but that's not what's gonna make me happy, and as my parents you and mom should only care about what makes me happy."

"Butters, you're seventeen, you don't know what's going to make you happy," Stephen argues.

"Actually," Butters interjects, "I'll tell you what makes me happy: two dozen pictures of you bein' strong-armed and hog-tied by one of your friends at the spa. And if you think I'm bluffing or that it's not you, I can always ask mom to give us a positive identification."

Stephen's face turns bright red, but before he can shout, Butters continues, "Now, I don't wanna have to do that. I think my time would be much better spent in therapy, getting help for depression. And if I'm gonna do that, I may as well go to whatever college I want and put that therapy to use. Get a degree, become a functioning member of society, allow myself all the opportunities you want me to have… right? And I'd hate to jeopardize that by having to show your wife who makes you so happy photographic evidence of just how happy you are to have another man workin' you over like you owe him money."

Stephen stands shell-shocked for a good long while before Butters decides to take pity on him and just go ahead and confirm it. He whips his backpack off and hands his dad the black folder. His dad goes still, and Butters can't help but grin.

"And if you think I don't have hard and digital copies all over the place, you're delusional," he says, snatching the pictures back. Butters doesn't have time to continue before his mom pulls up outside and he stuffs the folder into his bag again. By the time he's all zipped up, his dad is as white as a sheet and his mom has only just stepped inside.

"Butters, when did you get back?" His mom demands the moment she sees him. Butters just shrugs and returns, "A little while ago."

His mom's eyebrows knit together as she looks from Butters to her husband. "Stephen, what's going on?"

His dad, to his credit, seems to recognize the severity of Butters' threat, and quickly snaps out of his shock. "Butters is out of control," he folds his arms, looking stern. "Now, I've already told him that we're going to send him to a doctor, one that's going to make him get his act together once and for all."

His mom folds her arms and scowls at Butters. "Just what did you do now, young man?"

Butters shrugs again, "Nothin'." He moves past his mom and toward the front door, "I'm just gonna let you two have a chat, I gotta be somewhere else anyway."

His mom tries to stop him, but he feels invincible—enough so to keep walking even though his mom and dad both shout after him and down the street as he takes off. He doesn't know where he's going, but that's okay. Not knowing isn't as scary as he thought it would be, mostly because he's getting closer and closer being on the right track, to actually feeling good.

He walks all the way to Stark's Pond, even though it's much too cold to be out for long. Kenny spent so much time with him there; Butters just wants to sit there with his thoughts for a while.

That's not going to happen, apparently, since the bench by the lake is already occupied by Kyle and Stan, the latter of whom stands on the bench and emphatically recounts something that makes the former double over with laughter. The closer Butters gets, the more obvious it is that Stan is mimicking Eric (which he is, admittedly, very good at), and Butters has to smile too.

"Hey, fellas," he greets them. Kyle's face is bright red, and Stan reeks of booze, but they both look at Butters with equally concerned faces.

"Shit," Stan says and sits back on the bench. "We heard about Kenny; we thought he was with you."

"He was," Butters nods and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Then I drove him to the airport."

Kyle and Stan gape at that, and Kyle is the first to shout, "What?!"

"He's gone," Butters shrugged. "On an airplane now to god knows where. He didn't know."

Another moment passes before Kyle rolls his eyes and starts in, "Well, that's just fucking great. He's gonna get himself fucking killed because he didn't want to—" Butters kind of tunes him out after that. Stan recognizes this, and while Kyle rants Stan gets up and crunches through the few feet of snow, over to Butters.

"You okay?" he asks. Butters nods back, but his throat closes up so he can't say _'I'm fine'_. Then his eyes start burning and before he knows it he starts crying again. He knew he'd be going off to school and that they'd eventually have to separate, but he was prepared to do that _later_. Just six hours ago, Kenny and Butters had months to spend together. Kenny was going to be around while Butters started seeing his doctors; he was going to help him with his shitty parents and his shitty last few months of high school in this shitty town, and then they were going to get out of here together.

Instead, Kenny decided that he needed to leave now.

The worst part is that Butters knows he would have stayed if he had made a big enough fuss, because Kenny, for whatever reason, loves him that much. Butters couldn't do something like that, though—instead, he'll just live with the dull ache in his chest and the free-fall feeling in his gut.

He can hack being all alone for a little while, right? It's only a few months, and maybe going through all this stuff alone will make him stronger. It's an absurd thought, considering that the only person who's ever made Butters feel remotely strong is probably on an airplane now, off to who-knows-where.

Butters feels another wave of tears coming on, only before he can get to them, Stan pulls him into a nice, tight hug.

And Butters doesn't want to throw him off or run away or anything. He just lets himself hug Stan back.

Even Kyle seems to realize that it's neither the time nor the place to be outraged, and quickly shuts his mouth. Butters grabs two giant fistfuls of Stan's jacket and tries his damndest to just _hide. _

"Come on," Stan pulls back and offers Butters a smile. "We're gonna order pizza and watch some old Terrence and Phillip reruns."

Butters sniffles and looks up, where he can see Kyle still on the bench, nodding. Stan clumsily wipes the tears off of Butters' face and gives him a genial smile.

So Butters nods and agrees, "Yeah, okay."

Even if he's not with Kenny for right now, it's good that he at least has a couple of friends here to look after him.

And he can't help but smile hours later, when he wakes up where he passed out on Stan's bed to a text that reads, "_landed in seattle" _accompanied by a dark, blurry picture of the airport. Butters glances over at where Stan and Kyle lie draped over each other on an open sleeping bag, snoozing, and snaps a picture.

He sends it with the caption, _"All good here. Why Seattle?"_

_"morbid fasination with kobain-era grunge rock. sorry not sorry"_

Butters laughs so loudly that he wakes Stan and Kyle, and is quickly silenced by a pillow to the face.

* * *

**Here it is, the last chapter! I can't apologize enough for how long this took, but this is not the ending that would have come out of me two months ago. **

**Thank you all so much for reading and sticking around with this story. It means a lot to me to know that so many of you enjoyed it.**

**The chapter title is from_ Chim Chim Cher-ee [Rooftop Duet],_ from the stage musical version of_ Mary Poppins_.**


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